Match-Maker, Match-Maker, Make Them a Match

I wave to you. Photo by Sajad Nori on Unsplash

No full moon,
full belly, I finish
another batch of
passion fruit custard bomboloni -
the kind rich Millennials buy for themselves,
and call it love.

The Keane Brothers, remember them?,
sing, “Ugly One,” as if they mean it. I was 12, then,
dreaming of the one that got away, just because he said
those three little words, in German.
But he didn’t mean it then, and I don’t mean it now.

This is no holiday for the full moon set,
sitting on their front porches, hard lemonade in hand,
talking about cover crops, and the next hard rain,
a much more preferable, well-known sell-out,
Dylan setting a torch to his acoustic set.

Every harvest, between ovulation and menopause,
when the carrots and the beer have dried up,
I pine and I yearn for the things my parents did,
raised on Neil Sedaka love and Hollywoodland,
where they raped Marilyn
behind the scenes of an MGM canopy,
calling it, too, Love,
10 cents a dance.

There goes my father’s happily-ever-after,
down the drain with his tissues that always reeked of
Army after shave, bananas, and desperation. She never loved
him back. Now she is the “Ugly One.”

If you say the words again to me,
I may laugh. I may pretend,
but I may never love again.

Because I am the Match-Maker,
and you are no match
for me.

And that is the sad, sad truth,
my huckleberry friend.

Originally published at on February 15, 2021.

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