They weren’t ready for me,
but I’m not sorry.
“C’mon, throw my friend a bone.”
(alarm bells, buzzers, ring-a-ding-ding)
I said, “hold on, hold on,
(the girls were rolling their eyes
and turned around and they knew)
The diatribe might’ve been undeserved
but it wasn’t.
And I wanted to know.
“What kind of bone shall I throw him?”
“Shall I hold his wiener on the dance floor,
or will my number suffice?”
Those faces should’ve signaled the pity response
but a train doesn’t stop for much.
“Is your friend the sort of man who wants pity?”
“Would he accept some cheap boon of sympathy?”
“Shall I go home with him because he’s alone?”
(Two murderous gazes held steady,
and for what?)
(For desperate trying fools, that’s what)
I could’ve kept at it all night.
And they said wouldn’t I take a bone if it was offered to me
and I said I don’t play the lotto
and anyways no one was offering.
(the girls were getting annoyed)
(I was not, in fact, getting annoyed)
“Tell me, why should I throw you a bone,
and why should you want me to?”
But they were shooed away too soon
because I really
just wanted to know.