those eyes deserve a home
that glare and the stare
should fall on eyes
that reflect back
their passion and need

"I am a spontaneous, creative
and vivacious woman"

you've pasted your face in public,
as if stapled to a light pole in some
street, or in a run-down deserted saloon,
the jukebox still playing old favorites:
Elvis, the Pretenders and the occasional
Ludwig.

as if making a plea: love me,
someone please love me.
someone 5'11 or taller,
47 or younger, drinks socially,
is trying to quit smoking
and, oh by the way,
lives within a 100 miles
of Los Angeles. hair
doesn't matter.

"I am intense, loyal, genuine...
sooo much more than a pretty face"

all the stops are out. 37 isn't just
a number anymore. $37 for a pair of jeans,
a bottle of wine, a pair of shoes.
but thirty seven years is already
half a lifetime, and the other half
quite uncertain.

"youthful, likes to laugh and
be around positive people"

you're not alone number one
four eight, two four o,
who acted in a Molière play once!,
who loves Gandhi, watching the stars,
Lucy reruns, and buying shoes.

you're all of us.

those peering, yearning,
burning eyes
deserve a home.

it must be.�