Sixty-six

GIVE it a chance, Sydney, I texted to her from across the room. Keep an open mind . . .

“If you’re unlucky at love, you’ve come to the right space,” Esther declared. “Planet Earth!”

The crowd laughed.

“Too big? Too broad?” she continued. “Then you will applaud when we narrow it down to this room, this lounge!”

Hearing his cue, Dante stepped onstage and pulled a string that unfurled his handmade banner against the back wall.

WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE BLEND’S

SHOT DOWN LOUNGE

As the whole room laughed and clapped, Dante swept his hand over the banner like a game show host and a few females in the audience added wolf whistles.

Esther rolled her eyes. “You’re a hit, Baldini.”

Going with the flow, Dante mugged a Mr. Universe pose, and more women (and even a few men) whistled at his tattooed flexing.

“So join us up here,” Esther urged the audience, “if you’re shot down some night, for live music, karaoke, or slam poetry lite. If you’re not a poet, no worries, just share your woes in standard prose—and smile ’cause we’re streaming to the digi-globe!” She pointed to Nancy, down in front, who waved at the crowd from behind a camera. “For those doing free verse, you can make it terse—or take the full three minutes before you quit it. And now . . . let’s hit it!”

As more folks packed into the standing-room-only lounge, mobile phone cameras came out, and our amateur poets lined up near the stage. There were women and men, some in their twenties, a few in their thirties, customers we saw every day—a bank teller, a paramedic, an accountant, an office manager, a waitress, a programmer, a nanny, and a graphic designer, all waiting their turns to rap out their dating disasters. Finally the first poet, a young woman, approached the mic . . .

Un-Related

I matched an older dude, but he was still hot.

We met at a bar and he smiled a lot.

He said, “You look like her,” and I asked, “Who?”

“Your cousin. We were married in 2002.”

They’d split by now and weren’t even speaking.

Too young to remember, I couldn’t stop freaking!

“You want me, I know,” he said with a wink.

I covered his head with my two-for-one drink.

Class Mate

I was sixteen at the time (six years in my past)

when a girl friended me and began to chat.

She was cute and funny and I thought she was cool.

She said she went to a nearby high school.

But nobody knew her, and I couldn’t see

why she never FaceTimed or wanted to meet.

When I got her number, I ran a check.

Reverse directory made me a wreck.

She wasn’t a scam-bot or dark-web creature,

the “girl” of my dreams was my history teacher!

The Wrong Divorcée

ForeverLoveWithYou.com matched my ex-wife with me,

five years after our divorce.

Clueless

Slamming shots of tequila, she started to cry

about her ex-boyfriend and how she lost a “great guy!”

With tears streaming down, I thought she might drown,

and I’d feel like a skunk, if I left her half-drunk.

So I listened for hours about her lost man.

Then I poured her ass into an Uber van.

Next day, she texts “thanks” for my “hospitality.”

Wants a second date! Are you kidding me?!

Hazardous Hookup

Greatest date ever! (I thought.)

We talked and laughed and went back to his squat.

Made love and passed out. Then I had to pee.

Swung in the wrong room—and what did I see?

Guns and ammo and Semtex galore.

I even saw bulletproof vests on the floor!

I hurried home and called the cops.

Then got drunk on peppermint schnapps.

Three months later, I get a text from his brother.

“My bro is in prison for one reason or other.

He’d like to see you. Here’s the lockup’s process . . .”

I changed my phone number and blocked his address!”

Sliced

“Let’s meet for pizza,” she said, once we matched.

They say to meet quickly, and she was a catch.

So I bought the pie. We shared it and talked.

I worked hard to be charming, didn’t think I’d get blocked

when I asked for her number. But she said, “Naw, I’m good.

Just wanted free pizza. See you in the hood!”

Catfished

“I can’t decide what’s more beautiful.

Your name or that smile.”

He was so romantic. Had class and style.

It was three years ago, when I was eighteen.

I matched with him, and he spoke like a dream.

Said he was twenty, and looked it, too—

in the photos he used on social media views.

After weeks of messaging, we declared our love.

I wanted to meet, sure we’d fit like a glove.

He proposed that we kiss and take a long drive.

That’s when I found out—he was fifty-five.

Empty

I swipe and type and fly like a kite

when he picks me from the dating app tree.

But my photo is shopped, and my texts are all copped

from a clever blog I know.

So who is he picking? And who am I kidding?

Welcome to the robot show.

Hi, wassup? Hi, wassup? A thousand times a day.

One likes my smile; another, my wit,

but it’s all a big pile of—

The poet tipped her mic to the audience, who called out the missing word.

Fingers and thumbs, tapping and rapping

Feels like a party (where no one came)

So many guys. But after some time,

these dates all sound—

“The same!” cried the room.

This wireless connection is pretend affection.

The screen is a mirror, but I need its—

“Reflection!” the people shouted.

So it’s back to the swiping, the selfies and liking,

back to the love less real.

Hold the phone, there’s another entry!

The poet paused to uplift her phone like a holy grail. Then she brought it down, her voice going quiet . . .

My hands are full,

but my arms are empty.

The crowd had been warmly applauding every poet brave enough to approach the mic. But this last one must have hit a chord with the app users, because she got the biggest hand of all. Some women even stood up to applaud her.

As the next poem began, I noticed Sydney had heard enough.

With a snap of her fingers, she summoned her Tinkerbell posse and headed for the stairs.

I did, too, the back stairs.

Muscles still aching from that ridiculous Critter Crawl, I forced my feet to take two steps at a time. Then I burst out the back alley door and raced around the corner—just in time to catch Sydney Webber-Rhodes storming out our front door.