I'm a 3 out of 10 so don't
look me square in the face.
Drive by slowly as I pull
from a jog to a run, a magenta
dream, ass like infinity
in spandex. It's better than
nothing. The plastic skeleton
in the driver's seat of the old
Plymouth Valiant down the block
rolls down his window, sings
a few bars of "Criminal" each time
I circle past. He's practicing
his dangerous sexy eyes for karaoke
at the management holiday
retreat. He might even go
in costume as Fiona Apple,
clavicles gleaming in a '90s
bra top. I love this about him,
how he's funny, how he doesn't
check the back seat for intruders,
only smiles and sings and
never asks to be redeemed.

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I wrote this poem in response to the feel-good feminism of the Barbie movie.