"Picked You"

I picked you because of your sweet voice,
your softened Rs and your awkward drawling vuh.
"How vewwy stwange" you said to me when I made a joke
and you didn't look nervous, like you didn't know you were doing it.
Talking to you, I thought, must be endlessly pleasant.
I could hear your voice and not even notice my own.

I picked you because your job conferred the impression of brilliance.
You did not have the eyes of the dim and the vacant.
Your wit must be as polished as your Rs, I thought,
your temperament fine, your patience velvet.
I would really like to hear about the things you did at work today,
I really would like to know.

I picked you for your anamorphic hips
as wide as they could naturally be,
and the way you goaded your body with a touch of grace
though you were not a floating swan, if we're honest,
and you're always pulling at your sweater
because designers draw blanks when they look at you.

I've picked you, and I must be a prize!
I'll write about you and imagine you
in quick-cut scenarios that I swear are mostly innocent.
I will, simultaneously, view you as a perfect vision,
and recognize in my heart that you usually don't look
the way I've seen you, and might never look that way again.

In terms of gallant action I will glance at you over shelves
and admire your valiant, struggling poise
and wonder if you are in a bad mood because you're working,
or because I'm watching you,
or because I'm watching you without saying anything,
like a screwed-up scary murderer would.