You brought your body to the table.
I brought romance and poetry.
You didn’t want to, or maybe you were not able
To utter a single line of poetry.
You never made up anything resembling poetry.
You had newsy opinions and that was it.
I made up stories for you. I convinced you for awhile
That you were a poet without poems, that you were a poet in ways that really counted,
Because you loved nature, but I could tell, just by your smile,
You didn’t believe in anything that I was saying, even when I said
That saying wasn’t anything. You had this splendid aspect about you that cannot be explained.
You got very upset, once, when I held an umbrella over you when it rained.
I love to think, but you hated to “analyze” anything, and that gave me fits.
I was the poet. But I could tell: You thought all I thought about was your tits.
