The Other Man is Always French

     by Richard Peabody

The other woman can be

a blonde or a redhead

but the other man

is always French.

He dresses better  

than I ever will.

He can picnic

and stroll

with a wineglass

in one upraised hand.

Munch pâté,

drink espresso,

and tempt with

ashy kisses.

He hangs out  

at Dupont Circle

because the trees

remind him of Paris.

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Did I mention sex?

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Face it—

he’s had centuries

of practice.

I’m an American.

What do I know?

He drives a fast car,

and can brood like

nobody’s business,

while I sit home

watching ESPN.

He’s tall and  

chats about art—

I don’t even want

to discuss that accent.

He’s Mr. Attitude.

My fantasy is to call

the State Department

and have him deported.

Only he’ll probably

convince you to marry him

for a green card. 

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No way I’m going to win—

the other man is

always more aggressive,

always more attentive.

The other man

is just too French

for words.

From now on

I’m going out  

with statuesque

German women

so next time we run

into each other

they can kick his butt

for me. 

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