I take out my notebook and pick up my pen;

I thank him for seeing me.

Under the circumstances, most people wouldn’t.

By this time tomorrow, he says, I’ll be gone.

Most people, I say, think it's what you deserve;

you don't look different from anyone else.

You had parents who loved you,

you did well in school,

so most people wonder how you end up this way.

Most people, he says, they look at a sunset,

in a painting or picture, all yellows and pinks,

they say, oh—

what a pretty sunset.

Where is that, I wonder,

and most people look at a bird and they think,

what's it like up there,

how do the mountains look from the sky;

what would it be like to fly, they wonder,

and most people—most men, anyway—

they see a young girl in a summer dress,

smiling and doe-eyed and hair flowing free,

and the first thing they wonder is, what is she like—

in bed, I mean—

but not me.

I’m different that way.

Don’t get me wrong,

I appreciate beauty as any man does.

But when I see a girl, 

when a pretty young thing catches my eye,

I wonder, more than anything else,

what her head would look like on the end of a stick;

I close up my notebook and put down my pen.

He thanks me for coming.

Under the circumstances, most people wouldn’t.

This time tomorrow, he tells me again;

is not soon enough for most people, I say.

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