nails down a chalkboard

i tell her, with

reluctance, 

that i write confessional

poetry.

none of that Wordsworth

stuff,

or old Robert Frost.

the look

on her

face is priceless.

she thinks

of nails

going down a black board,

or maybe

at the airport,

an annoying mime.

don't worry i tell her.

i will never 

write a word

about you,

which makes her smile,

and exhale a sigh

of relief.

i'm used

to telling such tall

tales,

and lies.