The Boy

He is not conventionally good looking,
except for those blue eyes.
He wears sandals every day,
button-down, collared shirts.
His hair is a mass of black curls.
He might be Spanish, Lebanese, Portuguese,
but his last name is generic.
I might want his last name
one day, so I practiced
scribbling it rapidly,
as if I was signing checks
from our future joint account.
Something slipped from
his pocket one day.
I caught it but didn’t
tell him that he dropped it.
It was a receipt
from the library. He’d checked out
eleven 800-page fantasy novels
but not a single romance.

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