March 17, 2007

Of Men And Poets

He was a poet, and he had a way
with metaphor and simile
that made me think
he would probably be a great fuck.

I turned my open
notebook toward him
flirtatiously, and let him rifle
through its pages, peeking
at him over the rim of my cappuccino cup.

What do you think? I asked,
and licked milk foam from my upper lip,
wondering whether his skin would smell like
cream-colored acid-free paper.

He put his chin in his hand,
and rubbed his jaw. The sound
of his seven-o'clock shadow
made me think of pencils scratching.
My fingers itched
and drummed impatiently against

the plastic place mat. He said
something that was probably quite
brilliant. But by then, I wasn't
interested, because I'd noticed his
elbow was in the coleslaw.
It never would have happened
to Byron.



Fall 2006.

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