Author Information
Clients of Verse
It’s funny how all your clients are now
Men,
Or so you say to me, in prominent pronouns
Of he,
When you boast about your work.
But I hope you find that rich
Widow,
Among the pages of your toil.
You don't hold back telling
The conversation with the merry
Divorcee,
Of a missed dinner
In a distant state,
Forced grounded
by whims of fate.
The one I asked
Too many questions about
And your, oh we don’t talk of that.
The latest clients of wealth
You're not a gigolo, but a gigolo of
Verse.
You help them see
Their inner dream,
As art's extension.
Art as an extension of
a dream
Someone put to words
What I've already seen
Spoke of, and
Nuanced, to your
Deaf ears.
I blame you for the spilled tea
in my teaspoon drawer,
The mis-bite of my biscuit,
Gnashing teeth on forks,
The sleepless nights
of crawling bug,
Because I am thinking of you.
The dream of bugs
Seated in my forearm
Like rings in a velvet jewelry
Case.
I pull them out bloodless
One by one
From folds of skin
Like treasures
Crawling through slits of skin
Neatly stored
And I crush them
Thinking I have them all
Until you tell me
Yea, we would have been
Having dinner together
She and I, the rich divorcee
Right now, as I sit in his
Kitchen
Her and I, he says,
She said, he says
I know don’t rub it in
I know, I say
Don’t rub it in
I am jabbing internal
with my inner knife
To bring it to the fore
To cut myself in a way
without piercing
With a blade.
I blame you for everything
Yet beat myself up
Instead
I blame you for everything
Yet beat me up
Instead.
It’s funny you now say he
As in all your clients are
Men
Now.
