Franz Kafka was this chick I used to date-
humorless, opaque, malnourished, clingy,
systematically jealous to boot,
she always forgot to flush the toilet
and made ham sandwiches that tasted like sand,
complaining all day about her mother.
Her skin was like varnished pink Saran wrap.
She had a down home insignificance about her
and was always getting misplaced or lost,
locked in port-a-johns at White Snake concerts,
shoved down flights of stairs by novice nurse maids,
diddled by college professors and feather weight pimps-
I think that about sums up our first date.
The sex change didn’t shock me all that much.
-some souls just get put into the wrong body-
but when she told me the name she’d picked out,
I admit, I laughed in her face.
Sounds like a new age salami
or a fashionable fish-
Why not Jane Austen or Sappho or
Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Something bespeaking dignity and finesse,
not a name that conjures images of scummy restaurant sinks
or crippled miners!
(Sh/H)e won’t last a day with a name like that.