blue cheese and chili peppers
these women are supposed to come
and see me
but they never
do.
there’s the one with the long scar along her
belly.
there’s the other who writes poems
and phones at 3 a.m., saying,
“I love you.”
there’s the one who dances with a
boa constrictor
and writes every four
weeks, she’ll
come, she says.
and the 4th who claims she sleeps
always
with my latest book
under her
pillow.
I whack-off in the heat
and listen to Brahms and eat
blue cheese with chili
peppers.
these are women of good mind and
body, excellent in or out of bed,
dangerous and deadly, of
course—
but why do they all have to live
up north?
I know that someday they’ll
arrive, but two or three
on the same day, and
we’ll sit around and talk
and then they’ll all leave
together.
somebody else will have them
and I will walk about
in my floppy shorts
smoking too many cigarettes
and trying to make drama
out of
no damned progress
at all.
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