I've discovered that bourgeoise sisters don't like me.

The affection I find is bracketed
by stab wounds, stanzas and stretch marks.
Daughters of discontent who remember
smell of precinct hallways
in middle of the night.
Finds me happier in arms
used to carrying tomorrow on their hip.
The most likely to like me
are photogenic poets and round the way girls
who never had a 401k.

Sandalwood sisters in seductive wrap skirts
with community college catalogs in their
always-so-big bags,
or breathtaking single mothers
scrolling through online personals ads
after kids go to sleep.
Nimble female emcees who can name
every member of the Native Tongues,
or cute gum poppin' girls from gang territory,
colored braids fresh from homegirl hands.

See, saditty Black women don't seem to care for me.

No matter how many roses I greet them with,
how much they laugh at candle-lit dinners,
or how my compliments
catch breath in their throats,
my phone stands silent after first dates
with master's degrees holders
whose student loans were paid off by age 30.
My hopeful emails fly into the ether
like windblown snowflakes from November storms,
never to be seen again.

Despite adoration for depths of my eyes,
flattery for my fashion
and cooing at baritone in my voice,
my lips never seem to find nape of their designer-scented necks,
my arms can't find a way around workout waists
and they admit to spending lost evenings
with calicos and DVD rentals
after turning away my insistent rainfall.

My hunting eyes look for tenderness in corners of smiles,
sweet curves under skirts or sweatpants,
and I never actively decide to
adore tired eyes in checkout line
or walk by ones concentrated on refinancing rates.
it's just a few certain kinds of women
find my southern charms and braying laugh
as enticing as a 70% off sale.

My billion dollar vocabulary,
collection of Creed karaoke CDs
and cascade of computer skills
don't seem to mitigate simple facts.
I'm as ghetto as single cigarettes
sold out of a bulletproof window,
brittle edge of my civilization --
with congressional conversations
or romance novel overtures --
never quite covers echoes of dominoes slamming
in back yards of my life.

Luckily, sentiment in feeding me berries
illuminated by late night music videos
or star-struck smiles on seamless southside faces
walking down aisles for Hollywood play opening nights
make up for all the slowly closed doors
and stillborn first kisses
from embittered career women
dreaming of landscaping and Home Depot
who tell me simple pleasures are simply not enough.

So I listen to stories about bailed out brothers
and let painted nails print cover letters on my PowerBook,
happy to stand apart from massa's dreams
under hundred-dollar press-and-curls.

"Stab Wounds, Stanzas and Stretch Marks"
or
"What Is Your Type, Anyway?"
By Hannibal Tabu