Nothing better to do
while waiting for you
then to read the magazines
on your coffee table.
I thumb through
to the horoscopes,
hone in on Leo.
One issue, it proclaims
I will meet the perfect man.
And I thought I was
the perfect man.
Next week’s forecast is
I will meet a good man.
Well that’s good.
The week after, the message
is merely, I will meet a man.
We’ll fall in love, marry.
Nothing in there about
the sex change or
my hormones’ shift in preference.
Of course, you’re the one
who believes this stuff,
you’re the Leo.
The last one I read
is low on predictions,
just says something like
his favorite colors
are green and red.
That’s when you saunter down the stairs,
dolled out in green and red.
“How do I look?” you ask.
I’m surprised you don’t know.
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