Oh, I am nothing
if not agreeable.
I come from a long line
of non-boat-rockers –
or is it boat-non-rockers? –
I would never want to offend
by the wrong terminology
or even the wrongly tilted
So I listen
to those I love
or at least used to love
and they dump words
that enrage me.
But I will not be enraged.
I summon a smile
but it refuses.
I turn away.
One day I may shout
Wrong! Wrong!
but not today.
Today my boat is still in its mooring.
Moored to my desire
to be loved.
Loved, not at any cost,
but just a little cost
to my integrity.
That’s not so expensive
I think.


But enough about poetry.

I’d rather read the letter

sufficiently enticing

to elicit  the invitation

to Italy.

Perhaps you enclosed a recent photo.

Your literary skills – or so the story goes –

inspired a true proposal

of holy matrimony

until the already-wife sent you packing.

This could have been literal.

“Please pack your punctuation,”

them being the literary set.

But I’d prefer drama,

A confrontation of recriminations.

Well-worded threats.

A year before, my boyfriend’s mom escorted me out

via sharpened scissors.

How infinitely more romantic

if the poet’s spouse

swung the shears.

Did you love him for his mind?

Did he fuck you for your body?

But, hell, you ended up with a book

and a reputation.

But enough about poetry.