With your baby-blues, you made me believe
It was cute to be awkward. That my flailing limbs
Were seduction incarnate. Instead I make eyes
And smell of desperation.
I corner him over coffee and Gladwell,
Fail spectacularly. He leaves without my number
And I never see him again. How many hipster-lensed archi majors
With tastes for pop psychology and coffee and poetry
Are there? He’s the first I’ve seen.
Tom Hansen without the sweater vest.
Zooey, you could have him. Me?
All I have is bad poetry, no bangs.
Just the “dork” in adorkable.
(Bad poem. Sorry, folks.)