I first saw you in the corner store
buying a pack of cigarettes
dressed in black
and looking like Mad Max.
You smiled at me, and I felt a shiver
that spread from the small of my back
to the tips of my toes,
and I thought you were bad.
Bad for me to have.
You followed me home in your Harley,
revving that motor
and waving as if I couldn’t hear you already.
That’s when I knew you were dumb.
Dumb like the rock that bounced off your bike
and hit me on the side of my head.
But I didn’t listen to reason,
and we ended up in bed
where you performed like an Olympic champion.
USA! USA! USA! I screamed ecstatically.
Gold medal for you, my not so bright,
Gold medal for me, too,
to see past your smallish brain
and straight to your very, very large heart (and other parts).