Day Seventeen.

You, Poet.

Oh, archetypal poetic dreamboat,
drenched in all things pentameter and haiku, quoting Ginsberg and Kerouac like days of the week.
I’d very much like to bathe in your finely tuned renderings of William Carlos Williams and believe that when you whisper “this is just to say” that you’re talking to me, confessing something I will easily forgive you for.
Let me be your endless metaphor, the bee to your flower, the leaf on your dying oak tree–
I can be your simile, like an oasis in a desert land, not anything like a mirage, but like the real thing, as real as you’ll ever know–
Play your jazz and write viciously across your parchment paper, honey pie, and I will accept your Beat Generation pretenses and your all black wardrobe and I’ll love you just the same, because you’re a poet and you know it, for goodness sakes,
and I’ve always been–always–a sucker for a man who speaks in verse.