I had lost my muse
2 wks earlier.
K— who every poem I’ve
written is meant to seduce,
to woo—
told this F fella, an ugly avocado
student of early-cummings trash,
a 50+ man that lies in his poetry,
that he was a genius.
He sat up quickly—
the positive test subject
a pioneering viagra might’ve needed—
smirking.
Since then, things have
been
disjointed.
I ask Leslie out for coffee
when the girls are done fighting.
