The man who wants you
is never in the place
you are. He is in Brooklyn,
you are in Chicago;
he is painting houses,
you work for Microsoft;
he is into bowling and computer games;
you are into stargazing
and poetry.
The man who wants you
is never in the time
you are: he is twenty years older,
rugged, romantic, teaching
Shakespeare or biology;
you are a coed with big eyes
in the back row of desire.
Or years later, the man who wants you
sits in the front row of your classroom
raising his hand, hanging on your
every word, trailing you to your office
with a thousand eager comments;
you are old enough to be his mother,
the last crush of his childhood.
The man who wants you
missed all of his cues, never
knew you were the One
until he had a wife and a house
full of responsibilities;
with the clarity of hindsight
he tracks down your number,
calls you past midnight
to weep and imagine
your phantom marriage.
The man who wants you
is never where you are—you
with your laundry basket
and your five-year-old car.
The man who wants you
is in Tahiti or Shangri-La—
the moon, the lagoon,
the gardenia on the nightstand.
THE MAN WHO WANTS YOU
The man who wants you
is never in the place
you are. He is in Brooklyn,
you are in Chicago;
he is painting houses,
you work for Microsoft;
he is into bowling and computer games;
you are into stargazing
and poetry.
The man who wants you
is never in the time
you are: he is twenty years older,
rugged, romantic, teaching
Shakespeare or biology;
you are a coed with big eyes
in the back row of desire.
Or years later, the man who wants you
sits in the front row of your classroom
raising his hand, hanging on your
every word, trailing you to your office
with a thousand eager comments;
you are old enough to be his mother,
the last crush of his childhood.
The man who wants you
missed all of his cues, never
knew you were the One
until he had a wife and a house
full of responsibilities;
with the clarity of hindsight
he tracks down your number,
calls you past midnight
to weep and imagine
your phantom marriage.
The man who wants you
is never where you are—you
with your laundry basket
and your five-year-old car.
The man who wants you
is in Tahiti or Shangri-La—
the moon, the lagoon,
the gardenia on the nightstand.