He wore khakis
and got along well
with my folks
he wasn’t the best looking guy
in the world
but he spoke seven languages
including Punjabi
he smelled nice
and fit like the sweater
you keep with the holes
he didn’t write poems
and he didn’t bring roses
he never told me
my eyes were like diamonds
but he knew when to lie
and when to let go of my hand
he never insisted
on pumping the gas
and he wasn’t the best looking guy
in the world
but he spoke seven languages
even Mandarin Chinese
and he didn’t try
to hold all my doors
or tell me my kiss
was as sweet as the rain
and I’m not the prettiest girl
on earth
but he never made me
feel weak in the knees
it was William or Peter
or one of those names
and I’m sorry now
that I tossed him aside
for a leather-clad singer
I think was named Steve.