You've been out all night
with the boys.
I expected you home later
but you said, "Hey, we're in
our thirties now."
I laugh and
you ask if I want to read
some poetry with you.
" Of course," I said
" but read the one I wrote you
last night first."
You give me a funny look
and I just smile.
" Pout, pout, pout,
I'll take all that you give."
I reply.
You're ready to read
from one of the
greats but I make you settle
for my foolish ones first.

I listen to you read
and ask if I had typos
I explained what "doe eyes" meant
and you nodded, "Ah
just a term I've never known before."

You proceed to read
from your book.
There was one about
a man getting ready for bed.
There was a knock on the door.
A woman walked in after a scary
episode of another man
attacking her.
He lets her inside.
They sit together,
the television he once had muted
now had the volume up.
And they sat there.
Ashtray between them sipping wine
together from plastic hotel cups.
Not a word spoken between them.
Just enjoying the moment
together.

Another one was about a woman poet.
She reminded me a bit of myself.
There she'd type away at poems and
hand them over to the other poet
excited to see his response.
He'd critique it and help her with edits.
In the end they drifted apart.
She'd reach out to him from time to time.
Called him her muse.

I saw a little of us in these pieces.
It made me enjoy it a bit more
Loving a poet has its pros
You get to share quiet moments together.
Such as the first poem
or you get to be a muse.

He read me just one more
from that book.
I sat and smoked
while listening.
Giggled at some parts
you did as well.
As you spoke, it
brought back fond memories-
years ago,
your lunch breaks spent
on vending machine sandwiches
and reading me poetry.

And here we are now
with a few more grey hairs
between us
still speaking the language
that is us.
My mad poet.