Fuck me in the morning,

she said

and went on to give specifics.

That’s the best damn poem yet,

I told her, but she

couldn’t believe it.

It’s nothing, stupid, a throw-away,

she protested in surprise.  Ah,

maybe that’s it.  But

she didn’t understand.

She wanted to be my greatest lover

and fancied herself a poet.

It’s honest, I explained.

What she couldn’t be to me

or herself or her

poems.  It was like the lover

who succeeded me:  trash,

using her for money and her car,

cheating on her, not even caring to cover

his tracks.  But she didn’t care.  She knew

it wouldn’t last, and said so.

It was me she complained

about, too passionate or too old,

too known while she pined for me.

If only I’d been the stupid nothing,

it might have worked.  If only

she’d planned to throw out all

her poems, she might have got them right.

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