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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.

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