From the Fishouse

Legend has it that if a single woman sleeps
with a piece of groom’s cake under her pillow,
she will dream of her future husband.

Afraid to stifle its prophetic powers
with Tupperware or plastic wrap, you leave
it on a plate and tell yourself eight hours
alone with your Prince Charming, make believe
or not, is worth one ruined pillowcase.

But then you meet him. Balding, doughy, squat,
he’s drinking Perrier at a NASCAR race.
Your first thought: Where’s Dale, Jr.? Your second: What
if this comes true? You wave red flags at him—
your psycho ex, your O.C.D., your love
of Maker’s Mark. He doesn’t get the warning,
although to you these secrets serve as grim
reminders that you’re sweet—just not enough,
and the one mess you can’t clean up in the morning.