I was going to write a poem

about the distance
I walk
girls to their cars.
You know, to the door?
down the stairs to the front porch?
out to the first step for that last, awkward hug?
do I really like them?
Am I concerned for their safety
or is this just
the obligatory,
socially and culturally
acceptable
distance for me to walk with this particular individual?

Did I even get out of bed?
Is the distance I walk directly proportional to the amount of feelings I have for that person at that time?
Or does time of day or night play into it?

Do I actually walk them
all the way
down the hill
to where they are allowed to park,
if they are a one nighter but it is 3 a.m.?

Or perhaps to the end of my lawn,
at the opening of my small,
rickety,
barely noticed
fence,
which keeps nothing in or out,
to hold them so tight that they know,
they just know

with every molecule in their essence

that I am theirs,

all of me,

and that I do not want them
to leave
but if they must,
I shall be waiting

eagerly

with every molecule of my essence

to breathe them in again,
to feel them near me again,
to smell their sweat again?  

I was going to write about that.
But then I thought,
why not write about your plants?

I realized the other day,
while watering my various plants,
six in total,
that all of them had been given to me.

They were all gifts.

By women.

My dear mother,
both of my  beautiful sisters,
two  rotten ex-girlfriends of mine,
and a kickass lesbian friend
I met through somebody
that got walked to the front porch.

Surely
there must be a poem
in there somewhere, I thought.
With all the females
and the ***
and the plants
and soil
and life

and all that other *******,

surely
I must be able
to conjure up

something beautiful,
something wonderful
and profound
and bewildering
and inspiring

and all that other *******,

but sadly for you
dear reader,
all I could come up with

was this *******
you just read.

The good thing is,
I didn't write this for you.
I wrote this for me.
I have to.