Finding (And Marrying) Mister Wrong

Airplanes skid off runways in Toronto it’s true but
not every darn one, so welcome aboard. The loonie

may be overvalued (in all of us) but dollar-denominated
boyfriends came and went over the years and many ate

food without scrubbing pots or painting floors. See!
There is hope—with or without genetic sequencing

or extraction of the tar sands sludgy bounty: progress
might sashay or shimmy into a room, offering to cook

or look for lingerie on sale; progress need not march,
accuse, take names, follow orders. Certain men hung

up the phone, certain men’s elevators did not go
to the top, certain men left the light on when no

one was home. Isn’t the past tense a delicious tense?
Doesn’t the present present U2 the way a concerted

effort might?: plenty of amplification for when desire
develops an edge, wireless microphones to broad-

cast your bellybuttons’ innermost thoughts. A thick glass
to shatter, the screechy purity of love. A glass to drink,

because the grapes see things your way. When the world
gets in your way, unfurl your yellow banner of Caution

Tape and rope that mother off. When the rent is due, think
of your landlord, in his underwear, staring at the funhouse

mirror distorting his motives. Look here, in your pink pages,
The Little Man is standing on his seat and clapping for this

Wrong one. Airplanes skid off runways in Toronto. That’s why
we’ve got such a soft embrace of bay to gentle truest landings.

on the occasion of the wedding of Nicole Miller and Andrew Wrong, July 28, 2006, South Park, San Francisco