i need a new title
for this
poem,
help me, i ask her,
as she
reads it for the fourth
time,
her glasses on the tip of
her nose.
it's not good, she says,
rattling the poem
in the air.
please tell me it's
not finished, right?
i think you need to work
on it some more.
it's a draft, correct?
hello, i'm talking to you.
no, i tell her,
taking the page from her hand
and balling it up.
i toss it across the room,
where the dog
chases it and eats it slowly.
words, dripping
from his mouth.
never mind.
i don't know why
i let you read my poems.
me either,
she says.
they stink. when i read a poem
i want
to be moved,
enlightened.
your stuff just doesn't do
it for me.
sorry. i know the truth hurts,
but so be it.
anyway, i'm starving.
have you thought about dinner
tonight?
Chinese? i'll get the menu
off the fridge.
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