What if there are too many flowers, not enough bicep? What if the words are too long?

What if she sees me dancing, or wearing the same shirt I wore on Wednesday? What if she thinks I don’t know how to change the oil?

What if she doesn’t want me to change the oil? Who changes their own oil anymore? What if she wants someone who does?

Where did I put my tools?

Somewhere there’s someone who knows where his tools are and he’s already put them away and he’s scrubbing the grease from his fingernails and he’s probably about to gut a fish with a knife he sharpened using a whetstone he carries in his pocket.

I hate that guy. He’s probably dumb and says dumb things while he’s flinging fish guts all over the garage.

He’s not going to clean that shit up, you know? And he’s never going to write you a poem.

If he does, the words will be short, they’ll be misspelled, and his grammar will be terrible and you’ll probably think it’s completely adorable, including the stupid smudge at the bottom, the one made of grease and fish blood.