Not That You Asked

No one is asking for another poem. When I walk

the neighborhood, no one stops me to ask

why I haven’t shared with them my latest thoughts

on death, or dogs, or the way a flatworm swordfights

with his penis. There are no petitions, no Kickstarter

fundraisers, not even a peaceful march with placards

and animated crowds asking in a shout, “When

do we want it?” Anyway, the answer would be,

I’m quite certain, “We’re good. No hurry, dude. Whatever

works for you.” It’s okay. I get it. Poets are like

that lady in your office who always wants to tell people

her dreams:  “There is no word in the world

to describe the color of the shirt Ryan Reynolds

took off before he kissed me. But then I realized

it was my father I was kissing! Don’t even get me

started on what that might mean.” And no one does

get her started, but that doesn’t stop her. Point taken.

I won’t be saddling any of you with how it felt

this afternoon to find, as I was boxing up my old books

from college, sandwiched between the pages

of Herbert’s “Bitter-sweet” and “Love,” between

“sour-sweet days” and “usurping lust,” a condom

wrapped in a square of red foil, as yet unope’d.

(from Pembroke Magazine, 2016)