|Fuck Me in the Morning|
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  6 Aug 2007
Fuck me in the morning,
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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