your poetry stinks

you're poetry stinks,
she says to you.
what's with all the typos.
the grammar
mistakes, misspellings?
it's a self absorbed
mess. who are you kidding.
you ain't no
Robert frost. you ain't
even Charles
bukowski.
why don't you give it
up and stop.
do the world a favor.
no one wants to hear about
your sad sack love
life, or silly problems.
she's angry when she drinks.
so I take all of it in
with a grain of salt.
this will make a great
subject to write about,
I think, staring
at my half eaten lobster
roll and sipping on
my Tanqueray and tonic.
go on, I tell her.
keep talking.