I think I should quit
Writing about the men
Who will never love me.

Why do I never
Write about a man
Who stands
Right in front of me?

Maybe I'm scared --
Of his dead-sea eyes
Of his wild, scraggly hairs.

Of his mind --
How he loves to search and sleuth
And read.
That he'll fall in love with my work
Peer inside my pages
And see, suddenly.

That, maybe one day
He'll read these words
And say, "Hey!
This is me
Me, me!"

Oh, then
I think that I would die!

Maybe it's because
I've believed his funny folly, --
He's spoken to me
Said, "Girl,
You write to escape."

And how can you escape
By tumbling inside
Of something you can see
With your eyes open wide?

Maybe it's because he's already here
The accessible muse.
Maybe it's because, when I move my pen
I feel it is guided
By his steely blues.

Maybe it's better
When I write
For the men who aren't there.

Because I know
If they stumbled upon my words
They'd simply say, "Oh,
What do I care?"