Extraordinarily Average

inspired by the work of another poet- more details in comments.

This New Year, I am thinking of all

the men in my life, who ever told me,

after dating me-

You are too passionate

and impractical, for me. I say to you, 

without irony, that I do not

wish you ill this year; in fact, I wish you

an extraordinarily average 2019.

 

I wish you 365 days

of dreams colored like dusty cars in

the month of March. I hope every day

feels like it might rain, but hardly ever really

rains, and every time it does rain, it floods

the street in front of your house.

But just a little bit. 

I hope you find a nice well-paying job

in a call center

that uses exactly none

of your talents.

 

That every other text

message you receive, be from

the phone company or the landlord.

I hope you always get the aisle seat

on the bus and the middle seat on

the airplane. May your travels never

take you to international

border checkpoints; may your hotel

rooms not come with windows

or toilet paper.

 

I wish you overcooked vegetables

and Russian salad and spaghetti

made with ketchup and vienna sausage.

Instant coffee. Cheap wine from a box,

served in plastic cups. Anniversary meals

at Campero. Boring underwear

and socks that always rotate

just about 60 degrees

in your uninteresting shoes.

 

I wish you the love only of women

approved by your mother; I wish you

a wedding at the town hall

and a honeymoon

in your parents’ house. I wish you

sex where you both take the time

to fold your clothes neatly before

getting into bed. I hope you always

have to ask her if she had an orgasm.

May you have a shared Facebook

page and may she always have

the password to your phone.

 

I wish for you a nice modern apartment

with white walls (no nail holes!)

and yellow floors

and artwork depicting kittens.

The only birds, pigeons. A dog

that is indifferent to your existence.

A bookshelf full of novels that do not

use the word “f**k.” Movies where

all sex and violence are implied

but never shown.  Poetry that informs you,

the sky was blue, and the sun shining,

the day you thought you fell in love,

but that never give you any insight

about why you fell in love.

Music that does not force you

to laugh, or cry. Or think.

 

I hope your friends never talk

of anything more interesting than beer,

or football. I hope they do not trust you

with their secrets- that you never realize

who, among them, is gay or bisexual

or polyamorous. I hope you all spend

most Friday nights safely at home

doing laundry ans watching tv. 

 

May you never be pushed

to know either the exquisite pain

of too much joy, or the life-changing

nature of an unplanned or lost pregnancy.

I hope you never again need to show empathy

when your partner sobs at midnight

at yet another resurfacing memory

from the ledgers of documented horrors

in her heart. May your own night skies

never be quite dark enough to see the Milky Way,

and may your priest yawn

when you confess your sins.

 

May you especially never realize

that it is me you will always seek

in the eyes and mind and touch

of every new woman you meet along

the way of finding someone your mother

will approve for you.

Author's Note

Inspired by Rachel Wiley's fabulous presentation of the poem "To my ex-boyfriend on his birthday," whose stylings reminded me too of Matt Groening's play about the state of Connecticut (It's sand! It's khaki!). This is meant to be a homage to both of these fabulously funny and insightful works- using elements from my own dating experiences in Guatemala and the US. If anyone sees himself in this... I am sorry, maybe?

If you put ketchup and vienna sausage on spaghetti... I hate to tell you, your love life was already dead before I met you and I could not have saved you. If you have ever spent any of the time I visited your house washing and drying and folding your underwear... you may or not resemble a real story. If you freak out because your partner planned an outing of any kind without you... and she likes that about you... you deserve each other.

For the rest of you, Happy New Year, and I wish you a year exactly the opposite of each line of this poem.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

wow this poetry just slammed me in the face...such an verbal assault....raw and hard hitting.
your title and reference reminds me of Steven Wright...how he went into a clothing store and asked them if they would have anything he would like...and then asked if they had it in "extra medium."
your poetry jumps off the page, Marie.
j.