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My friend predicted
my husband as an indie rocker,
the type that wore glasses
and tight jeans.
He would be tall and skinny
and very smart, of course.

She said I would meet him in college
and her boyfriend said
that I would be very happy,
very happy indeed.
I try to picture this tall smart skinny
indie rocker in the tight jeans.

I try to imagine his glasses
and how they frame

his agile intelligence,
not sardonic street smart
Or single-field prowess
Or witty with momma joke comebacks.

They frame a cerebral power
capable of nuances,
blinky blinky lights
of capturing the entire earth minutely,
and doing anything and everything
with his complex mind.

I think of the kind of glasses
the indie rocker would wear.
They wouldn't be thick-rimmed
to feign importance.
He exudes it naturally,
important in reputation or not.

They would be skinny like his body,
subtle, conservative,
a touch upon his visage.
The lenses would be purposeful,
not thick of visual deficiency,
but slim, useful, like his complex mind.

The tight jeans are a tough one.
I see them frayed at the bottom
a light shade of denim,
of real denim,
worn with an ebony,
sparingly studded belt.

But the hardest picture of all
is the indie rock itself.
An unusual genre of music
like Modest Mouse,
paper-thin men of good news
and funny Russian hats.

And of other bands I have yet to hear.
Maybe my indie rocker in
thin-rimmed glasses
sings on a white stallion
as unknowingly sophisticated
as indie rock itself.

Perhaps I'll find out in college
when I'm supposed to meet him
and the indie rock.
Or maybe I've already met him
as he composes his album
right in front of me.

And when I buy this album
crack open the wrapper
and listen to it on my player,
we will connect
and I will be very happy,
very happy indeed.

Learn more about this author, Allison Reilly.
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