Five Years Ago in Singapore

In the middle of the Bellagio home and garden store
in Vegas, it’s Christmas Eve, and I tell my mother,
while looking at gnomes and nutcrackers and bears
that I want to give up on life, marry a rich man,
and call it a day, living a life of macarons and lattes
in cafés and bikini shopping, like the wives of expats
in Singapore, pushing a stroller around in a mall,
only I could never push a stroller around, because
not all women have to be mothers, and again,
not all women have to be mothers, and I’d prefer
a one-piece bathing suit with cutouts, reminiscent
of Hollywood golden babes of yesteryear, over
a bikini, which is overdone, and isn’t it ironic
that I’m calling a little modesty a good thing,
and why give it all away at the beach or public pool,
and I’m thinking out loud as my mother stops me,
because I’m being ridiculous on Christmas Eve
in the middle of the Bellagio store on the Strip,
and I realize that if this lifestyle of sitting around
with European and Australian men in bars, not
paying for my own martinis and tapas didn’t work out
five years ago, in Singapore, well, why in hell
would it work out now when I’m a little older, a little
wiser, a little less lured by what’s free, and I wonder,
well, why does the fantasy always involve a much
older, much richer man, when I like women, too,
and I know that with a man I’ll only wind up
disappointed, taking him to dim sum, and he won’t
pass the test of my heritage, asking me if every dish
is a dumpling or a pot sticker, and I’m so tired
of it all, because not every dish is a dumpling
or a pot sticker or a bun, and why do you keep
asking questions when the food is right in front
of you, ready to be devoured, and why would I trade
a childless life of gnome shopping and casino hopping
for a few free glasses of wine and gin, and I know
in the middle of the Bellagio home and garden store
that I deserve much much more than a boring
conversationalist at the opposite end of the dim sum table.