Not him; he’s fat.
And he puffs at the tiniest move.
He buys shirts for a body not his; I see he’s in Alexander McQueen.
So last year.
Not him; he’s trashed.
And his eyes are the blackest of black.
His thin body curves to the bar, trying to assume an air of cool normality.
So achieving the opposite.
Not him; he’s loud.
And his muscles have muscles have muscles.
His body is too big for his head; he spends his tedious life at a tedious gym.
Not him; he’s short.
And he walks in the angriest way.
He goes to one girl, then another, then another: a spread better, I see.
Not me; I’m too good.
And I sit with ostensible cool,
With a glass in my hand and eyes scanning the dance floor.
No, not you.