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Parade of Possibles.

 The Broker adored Hildegard of Bingen--but was a pussycat like my
ex before the X. Flannel Shirt was into conspiracy theories and
Sportswriter wanted a wife bad-- and found one a couple weeks after I
passed on the job. Bob #2 had some cockamamie ideas about harnessing
sexual energy. I knew he was right, but he so wasn't. Head of Hair
had a retainer and wore funny underwear. Either three ex-wives or
permanently single, none of them could be called Que Sera
 or had, to my knowledge, a tattoo. One had a performance problem and
ate alone (neither of which was the problem). Baby Poet had a head of
hair, too, but O so much blather. I am not a bitch and yes have many
flaws, but the old friend is way too old a friend and the high school
geek, while handsome now, is still one. The whole lot of them were too
damned eager. That anti-death penalty activist, though, he saw through
me in a way I don't yet get. This has me considering invisibility.
OK, a counter-intuitive and possibly counterproductive strategy, but
perhaps a good cover as I scan the crowd for a tattooed, bald widower
not named Bob, reluctant, loose-limbed, and wearing linen, who gives
good talk. 
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Title Annotation:Baby Boomer Issue
Author:Watson, Ellen Dore
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2009
Words:246
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