Please can I have that guy who sings to me?
Please can I have that guy
Who knows how to raise my cheekbones from ear to ear in the most unfeasible situations
Who doesn’t mind my immense eating habit and finds it to be intriguing
Wondering why the food doesn’t stick
Like nectar on bees
Who makes me the only dirt cakes from scratch which he says he put his whole foot in
Who walks like cocky Tyson Beckford with his superlative swagger across the catwalk
Who recalls my every knock-knock joke and has them all stored in the back of his mind like a FedEx package
Originated from my inner Dave Chappelle
Ready to be delivered out the soles of his lips,
To be mutual between us once again –
And no one can interpret this but us because
It’s our little secretive jest
Who keeps that Orbit fresh breath and ­Colgate smile;
Who talks like a baby Barry White, with his assuring
Big daddy tone in preparation of a slow ­seduction
Of my mind mentally silent from the world;
Who knows that bombarding me with ­compliments
Like an overflowing sullied toilet filled with feces, urine, gum, and hair
Is just too typical: please can I have that guy friend
Who knows that I don’t want that.
Who is not prepared to change himself to ­appease me.
Who, when I collapse to the floor like an iron-lacking anemic
While broken with tears and moaning like an abused milked cow
That enjoys nothing but the fresh dry grass
From the vast fields of the suffering and ­polluted earth used and abused,
Picks me up like a strong lion would grab his cub in the clutch of its mouth.