A D*ck Pic? How Kind!

A D*ck Pic? How Kind!

In a better world, the sun and moon are lesbians

and everything else is laminated and clean

but instead, I wait, scabby-kneed for a man

who leaves the toilet seat up and my back crooked. 

This isn’t what I learned from Hallmark’s Christmas in July,

and I’m confused. 

I’ve dreamed of Disney Channel Original Movie romance

more than once, but as a member of the generation

raised by blue light and over-exposed to expectations

encouraged by mass-media, I refuse to apologize for tempting fate. 

I’ve fallen for my best friend’s slow-burn style and fantasized 

about hydrangea bushes backed by picket fences. 

I’ve already had my first love and my second and my third,

but I guess Nicolas Sparks doesn’t like me or something.

Where’s my love and first grind at a Delta Chi frat party?

Where’s my American Dream College Edition? 

It’s with the regular American Dream, buried by date rape

and loans. A hidden clause stamped into the bricking

of earth-toned-suburbia. The best man probably won’t win  

apples to apples, dust to dust.