Chances Are
by Ann Howells

___ ___ the guy on the next barstool,
dark curl tumbling casually
over a sleepy sapphire-blue eye
and hint of five o’clock shadow,
is a liar’s liar. No matter what he says,
he did not invent the air bag,
laser hair removal or chocolate martini.
He’s not ghostwriting a film adaptation
for Fifty Shades of Grey,
appearing on next season’s Survivor,
or working as body double
for Adam Levine. Not once
did he subdue a wolverine using only
his voice. He never gave Spike Lee
the plot for Do the Right Thing,
and does not own an island
in the Bahamas, or anywhere else.
He’s not beginning each morning
with a mimosa (hand-squeezed
blood orange and Dom Perignon,
1988). Finally, he is no more related
to Luxemburg’s royals
than Whoopie Goldberg,
Reverend Sun Myung Moon,
or Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

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