ron riekki
I'm amazed
at how little poems
there are about this
wonderful act
of going backwards
to your twenties
when trips to Hell
were fantasies,
the ability to survive
eating insects
in China--who knew
we were killing
ten billion sperm
in that mother-
figure moment
of wishing we could
have a documentary
made of our lives,
our Walter Mitty
dreams of Miss
America; then
twenty years later,
I dated a finalist,
from Florida--
a racist who kept
telling me jokes
that made me wince,
her boobs the size
of the Civil Rights
Movement and me
caught in between
all of the bad decisions
of Hamlet.