my man

her sunday best
was what she wore on Tuesday
or Monday.
what she wore
when she went bowling
or to church,
it made no difference.
I am who I am she said,
sipping on a cold
bud,
eating a pretzel smothered
in mustard.
take me as I am
or leave me,
makes no difference
to me, she said, pointing
at the revolving door.
when the right man comes
along
he won't care
what i'm wearing, or what
I say,
or how long my hair
is.
he won't ask me who my daddy is,
or where I went to school.
he'll be beyond all that.
he'll look into my eyes
and see my heart.
she pointed at her
heart
dropping a dollop of
mustard on her white blouse.
oops, she said.
but he won't even care
about that. my man.