I am to him what McDonalds is to her

Before you read this poem, you should just know what it's about, because I'd like the readers to know. Generally I enjoy chuckling to myself as you all fumble with the underlying meaning of my poems, but this one merits some explanation. I just renamed this poem "I am to him what McDonalds is to her" because 1) I think it's a more interesting title, and 2) I fooled you, the title doesn't mean what you think it does. Unfortunately for you, McDonalds is not a restaurant. Rather, he is not a restaurant *nudge nudge*. Anyways, if I don't shut up soon someone is likely to pop up and ninja-kick me, so without further ado, here's the poem. Have fun with that!

I am to him what McDonalds is to her


It all gets to me
and seems a little
condescending
forgive me for
my presumptions
I call ‘em
like
I see ‘em
you put up a
wall of
defense like
a master of the
dojo
spontaneity confuses
all the
watching
eyes
and they glare
with each
shrug
of reaction
and each bead
of stubborn perspiration
but still
it gets to me
you seem to
have this
planned
I
mean
to
find
out

(c) Caitlin C.