how good his butt looks in Levi’s,
his sneaky grin, those blue eyes,
the way he traces your cheek
as you fall asleep.

He’ll always need a ride
and a 20 to carry ‘til payday.
He’ll eat all your groceries
then spill beer on the couch.

He can recite the line-up of the ’91 World Series
but he’ll forget your birthday.

He won’t walk the dog
but one spitting cold December night
when you return from the trip,
finally stop shivering, and doze—
he’ll wake you worrying
what would happen to his career
if his web browsing history were
published online.

When you snap that his porn preferences
don’t interest anyone, least of all you,
he’ll just roll over and sigh
like you let him down.

That great job he landed—
personality issues with the boss.
He’ll quit the day after
you make the non-refundable
deposit on your cruise.

Oh my God, I know his kisses
eat you alive
and when his fingers dig deep
into that tender spot in the middle
of your back it’s so good
you could purr—

But no!  Don’t fall for it.
He’ll waste a year of your life
that you’ll never get back.

He pronounces Las Vegas, “Las Veggis.”
Don’t overlook that.
He’ll keep doing it.
You’re too smart for a man that dumb.

Shawna Mayer