TO MY LOVER, AFTER OUR DISCUSSION OF POETRY
When you came in last night and said, “What’s that
you’re writing?” and I answered, “Poetry”,
you told me that I couldn’t feed the cat,
much less indulge in truffles and Chablis,
on what I’d earn by that. So now I know:
you need a higher income in your bed,
a lawyer or a lady CEO
whose metaphors are businesslike as bread.
Tomorrow I'll have one last rhyming bout,
pack luggage, do the laundry and my hair.
When you come home you’ll find that I’ve moved out,
taking my unproductive life elsewhere.
We’re through, my love. But since you knew no better,
I’ve left this poem and not a Dear John letter.
(Full disclosure: This is the last poem in my book, Easy Marks.)
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