Embedded in the crease above her lip,
a tiny whitehead shows. Her face is lined,
her hair is flat, her colors nondescript,
and as her speech gives entrance to her mind,
I watch her waddle with a walking spin,
I see her agitated pirouette,
and almost does she irritate my skin:
so plainly unattractive is Babette.

I might have deemed her declarations sweet
as compliments, deriving no offense,
except that she exhibited complete
indifference to my stated preference.
I told her every way, and yet again,
I’m oriented (chronically) toward men.