we poets spend lives
writing praise and penances;
the wine of our souls.

no of course
you would not notice me
the guy who walks your dog
those nights you go out
for dinner and combat

why yes i'd love to
fill in as your partner
for mixed doubles
flashing a smile at you
as you score and walk off the court

the one who gets you giggling
through your tears
those nights when
the handsome *******
earn their names

me, who'll you'll trust
with your car
with your plants
with your house
with your life
but not your heart

you tell me i'm first
in your syntax of friends
yet I'm so starved for you
that leftovers
will feed me for days

yes of course
i noticed you yes
you sitting on a park bench watching
the tail-wagging hunting dog you bought to charm
us into loving you

and if you really want one of us why
challenge me to this game of
mixed doubles badminton i can't possibly win
some lose some

how can i trust you if you
have to put my plants out in the rain to
catch a chirping cricket or if you
can’t make me cry with laughter when you
make fun of my religion

you are not
the kind of person who would
tell me the rugs make your body itch so much you have to
take a shower & steal my clothes while i let the
tetrahydrocannabinol go to my
mouth (and you think
god she's beautiful and
god i'm such a handsome *******) you are not
the kind of person who would
wish people took care of you as well as i
(do or die trying) and

i have severed the hand that fed me
with these flesh-sharpened canines
of mine
and i have not had seconds yet i have not
said grace i have not
eaten the porridge from your
outstretched hands cupped
as if to catch the hail that
stings my skin and
ricochets from yours as if it were
leather and the sheath of your knife
concentrated in the firelight and the
scent of burning cedar i am not
the one with a wrung-out neck and a
doll-eyed stare if you could
pluck the feathers one by one from my
frozen flesh i would not
bat an eyelid swing
low closed and animal finish
your story and in the dewy
morning the dead pine
will crawl with the beetles you brought in mason jars

how can you look me in the eyes when
dinner & wine always ends with a
checkmate

Shopworn covers, brittle pages,
faded, handled carelessly -
dime-store dreams locked up for ages
in the musty library.

Risks untaken, words unspoken
stacked in cornered memories
beside the shelves that hold the broken
spines of bound-up fantasies.

Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one-sided, closed-off
and severely kinked.