not my kind of girl
she’s cute yes
has a dorky charm
sneaks up on me at the bus stop
camel lights and all cassandra-filled me
says she’s carnie
which has me thinking circus folk
the fat chick from wilson-philips
oh, i don’t have time
to be cordial this morning
politically correct
a stone-cold gentleman
it’s late march and i’ve had it with the year already
have a cough from giving portia my umbrella
and getting stuck in the goddamned new spring rain
but carnie says she knows
some brother/sister combo i no longer do
says she’s an english lit major
but i never see her in any class
kris and i no longer go to anymore
this carnie translucent ghost white skin
her straight brown hair has tints of ruby
she stands like someone is getting ready to scold her
a punished dog
a soaking wet cat shivering in the cold
i bore her with bored babble because it’s all that i got
wonder why every time i meet one these types
i get apocalyptic visions of the future
i mean where are the knockout brown skinned girls in my life
danger nicotine-scented mouth women
who can fuck up and down frankstown road?
would they scare me?
carnie likes matthew sweet and the gin blossoms
she’s read kerouac, yes
but….
she probably likes to cuddle afterwards
i wonder would it be improper to check my watch
gee, the bus is never this late, i say to my fate
putting on my headphones
to slip into a d’angelo brown sugar haze
carnie says, hey, i’ve met your mom too
and man
i just know this thing
ain’t gonna work out.
I like this one. I can relate.
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