If Men are Mechanics, Women are Poems

If Men are Mechanics, Women are Poems

When a man meets a woman

It’s like a mechanic meeting a poem.

She walks into the shop

And he kindly asks,

“What would you like from me?”

And she says,

“Read me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Read me,” she says again.

But he’s confused,

“Do you need an oil change or your tires need oxygen?”

“No,” she replies, impatiently.

“I just want you to read me.”

So he holds her in his hands

And reads her, listens to every line.

Then he stops and says,

“Wait. Some of these parts don’t even rhyme.”

“Just keep reading,” she says.

So he goes on reading

And reading and reading

And listening and listening

And the lines get longer,

The words are misspelled

He knows exactly how to fix this

“But who even wrote this?”

But she begs him to keep reading

And all his buddies are wondering

Why he’s taking a break

To read some poetry.

And then he gets to the end,

The final stanza

Of this poem

That made no sense

This Dante’s Inferno

With no flames

This Shakesperean drama

With no name

And it suddenly vanishes

In his hands and it’s gone.

Because in the end

All she really wanted

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