All the crazy boys know my name.
They seek me out in crowds,
at subway stations.
They leave bouquets of wildflowers
at my doorstep.
I don’t know why.
I guess they have a radar on
for girls like me.
The crazy boys find me
when I least expect it.
Walking in the rain.
Riding on the bus.
Getting over
another crazy boy.
They woo me with their wildness:
with their rebel minds,
their sexy smiles,
the sultry way in which
they don’t quite
make sense.
All the crazy boys
know my number.
They call me up past midnight
to tell me stories
thinking it is noon.
The crazy boys have histories
you would not want to guess at
and it does not surprise me to learn
after a while
they all come from the same place.
It seems the crazy boys are brothers
from the same family.
They got the gene for dark-eyed, handsome
madness and Lord knows
they got a thing for me.