I’m terrified to approach poetry.
—English teacher, Hoover High
Try watching her reflection in your mirror
as you back toward her in an armored car.
Expect your heart to blorp and splutter. Don’t
expect she’ll be alone. Her dance card
is always full. Her phone is always busy.
Even if she had Call Waiting, she wouldn’t make
anyone wait for you. Then there’s her dad:
Godzilla without the sense of humor, roaring
questions hot as brimstone: “How will you
support her? What Authority declares you worthy
to lick the ground beneath her Pyrrhic feet?”
And there’s her agent, fur hat wide as a flying
saucer, enough pinkie-ice to sink the Titanic,
and a blade for slicing epic egos down to size.
Your only hope is, she wants to be understood.
Drop in after midnight, if you dare. Wear clothes
you feel comfortable in. Comb your hair
the way you like it. Walk right up and ring her bell.
If you’re a fake, her dad will make you take a job
in deconstruction; her agent will beat a confessional
sonnet out of you. But if you’re lucky,
and your heart is true, she’ll meet you at the door
in baby-doll pajamas. Let her cook your favorite foods.
Wolf ’em down. You won’t get fat.
Don’t say you love her; everyone says that.
She’ll try to lead you to her bedroom, but don’t go.
Say you want to get to know her first.