During the candy mustache fad
      you fed your lemon goatee to that taxi driver
        (the one with washboard abs
        he got by doing sit ups
        while holding huge bags
        of shredded greeting cards)

i pretended not to notice
    the replacement was pineapple
        (similar look, different taste
        - a common mistake of yours)
     and how you never seemed to walk anywhere
        (a ride for a ride,
        i knew)

and
    while you spent your evenings
    tearing up boxes of valentines
    and sighing away

    i took impressions of your footprints
    photographed your worn-out shoes
    and published a complex analysis
    revealing
    the pigeon-toed truth
    behind your supposedly sexy sway

Now it is later, it is after

steel wool dreadlocks are the fashion

and as i stare at your rusting curls

i can tell     you have not realized
    i know
    why you blush around Hallmark displays
and
    you have not figured out
    i am
    why they snicker
    and make cooing noises
    when you strut

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