"Now, who the **** does this guy think
he is??"

She did not say it,
but though it,
and she thought it
loud enough.

"The arrogant ****,
dispensing opinions and words
like he is
(imagine that!!)
someone,
a Bukowski wannabe,
like he has something to say
the earth itself has not yet died of boredom
listening to,
who the **** does he think he is?
He won't even dare
to use
his real
name,
the slimy *******!"

She will keep not saying it,
but thinking it,
just loud enough,
just until
the end.

Then she will leave,
change the page,
forget it soon,
and get back to reading those teenage poets,
those facebook, Instagram poets,
with real names
and fake verses,
or to reading nothing
at all:
which is,
thinking about it,
the same *******
thing.