She told him no. He wasn’t to do that.
She made him feel like a rat.
The wrath belonged to her. He
Was the child, rebuked; she
Was the parent; she was in command
Of the relationship. She told him
When to lift off and when to land.
She knew what she was doing,
Except when they kissed, or were screwing.
She made it clear she would dump him in a second
So that gave her the upper hand.
Administering the relationship for her
Cautious, introverted, pleasure
Was a skill she had.
So it was a little hard to understand
When she said “I like it when the man takes control.”
It was her creation. Even her own soul.
All it took was wrath. She got mad
And he would lie awake at night, sad.
He was the poet, but he only made
Poems. She wove their very light and shade.
She liked secret, upper floor offices.
She preferred the view above
From humming, quiet offices.
And then there was his love.