"Oh, so you're a writer? How interesting." The boy says,
Licks his lips, tries to imagine
What his name might look like in my bedroom;
What his love might look like in my handwriting.
I don't tell him I write poetry.
I want to tell him that I write murder mysteries;
That I will write him dripping against the 52nd
Floor window,
A closed-door murder and all the newspapers know
His name-
And this is because
It isn't what he wants.
He tells me I'd look good on the back of his motorcycle,
But better under his hips;
Wrapped up so tightly in his sheets
That I'd never leave,
And oh, he can't wait until I read him my work
In the morning,
How it will go great with the excuse he'll leave
For never calling back
When I don't write the correct words.