The world, he tells me,
His eyes intense and boring into mine,
Consists of women:
The plain and the beautiful.
No ugly ones, of course,
Just plain, he insists.

And the men?

Oh, they barely exist somewhere,
Along the edges of his point of view.
He confesses,
His weakness for women,
The beautiful ones, mind you.
Well, one or two plain ones,
Who, he reluctantly admits,
Fascinate him though-
He still hasn’t figured out why.

And where do I figure,
Me, one of the phone numbers,
In his little black book?

Where else, but under the “A”s,
And his eyes twinkle mischievously.