I see your brown lace-ups everywhere
on shoe racks, in classrooms
tapping tile on the feet of faceless men
who walk and talk and dress
the same way you do
When I see your clones in
I tell myself you’re too fucking normal
with your routine
your fresh-made bed and your nine-to-five
but I know I’m wrong when I say that
because I’ve never liked normal, ever
and I like(d) you
a lot
trust me, man
it’s not that I’m desperate
I boast an accomplished stable of thoroughbreds
trained to be whipped and spurred
Stallions I can ride at any time of night
who’ll pant and pelt
til I’m satisfied
But not a single racehorse
won me a blanket of roses
and after a few seasons speeding in circles
inevitably
I got pregnant with empty-
too fat to be a jockey
It’s a shame you’re about the derby
the “most exciting two minutes in sports”
because I think about fucking you all the time
but I can’t since
you just want to race, left-handed
along the edge of a dirt track.
