Every time I’m caught with a man
in the street, strangers grin at us
fluorescently. They throw young love
at us, make the man at my side smug
in his well-meaning smile.
I can only conclude that I
simply look good on any man
regardless of how I feel
about him, which may not
be much at all.
To the strange eye,
I am love, after all. A small
woman with fingers jointed perfectly
for brushing the hair from your temple
the voice for long talks
the gutsy haircut
the disorganized guts
the feet blistered
from soled-out-shoes
and the nerve
to take you seriously
for a moment
or two.
-- Megan Kellerman
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