Dinner, Arranged
My usual badly drafted poetry
You asked me why I thought men enjoyed my company
And my blunt answer stunned you
So much so that you choked on the Merlot and sent red clotting down your shirt
I didn’t mind.
Even when the waiter stared.
because unlike you with your baby boomer ontology
I find no value in
polite lies wrapped up as truth
packaged as modesty and sold as respect, so
When you pretend there is an elegance to your addictive adultery
or privacy in that fantasy that maybe
Maybe
A twenty one year old with a Cambridge laugh could see you as something other than fading
Nice illusion
But unlikely
- Just know I relish my brutal vulgarity
But I’m sorry I ruined your shirt
