they're offering up their fingers
for the promise of comfort:
monday nights at olive garden,
thursday nights at target,
one vacation to disney before kids
mickey-moused and bamboozled
into pictures (25 a pop) in front
of a castle they'll never call home.
on sundays, he'll mow the lawn,
she'll paint her nails and cry
when the casserole burns at the edges.
me, i'm not in waiting.
i like 'em broke, pantless,
and crude,
salivating for steaks and
my leg meat.
i like 'em afraid of commitment.
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