I hesitate to even post this one, but if I start picking and choosing which old poems to post and which ones to designate for the trash heap, it defeats the purpose of having rescued them from the bin in the first place.

It’s not a very good poem, but it is a very good point of reference against newer material, and I know the mental place I was in when I wrote it. When I was younger, I didn’t quite get how my own thought process worked, so I was constantly drawing poetic parallels to measure pros and cons and figure out where the happy mediums were.

I also remember feeling accosted by ‘couple mentality’. There was a point in my life where I was surrounded by people who polarized the world into this strange land where either you were with someone, or you were miserable, and I think because of that – being neither coupled or miserable myself – I often found myself subconsciously studying the differing mechanisms to of singleness, and how different women handled it.  This poem was a sort of exploration of the two polar opposite ends of that mental exercise.

I’m really tempted to tear it apart and make it better, but I’m also not really interested enough in this conceptually at this point in my life to really give it the attention required to turn it into something.  So, I think it’s crap, but, for posterity, and because I don’t want to allow myself to start really picking apart poems that I haven’t looked at in over a decade, it stands as it is.

Single Women

Some single women don’t follow the rules.
They throw stones in glass houses,
only shave on Tuesdays,
and have entirely too much fun alone.

You can’t tell what they’re thinking.

Some single women straighten their hair, 
want you to know that they’re there.
Have learned how to stare without blinking.

They know how to beguile.
They have a hundred-yard smile.

Some single women don’t answer the phone.
They go home alone.
Write poems that rhyme—most of the time.

It’s hard to believe they’re not sinking.

Some single women follow the rules.
They go home with fools.
Break bread just the same
as the women who came down a different road.

Advertisements