"I'd love to check out
your poems," he remarked
after she reluctantly disclosed
her occupation.
"Sorry." She fidgeted.
"I don't
show my work
to guys I date."
"Why not?" He
fumbled
with his necktie
that was beginning to look
like a snazzy silk noose.
"It's probably on the level
of T. S. Eliot,
Yeats, Mary Oliver,
all them."
She winced.
"See that's precisely why not."
"What?"
"The poet writes about what hurts
or what helps the hurt.
Poets don't write to impress,
they write to cope.
I fancy you . . .
So, on the one hand, if you like my poetry,
I'll start writing what I think you'll keep liking.
And on the other hand,
if you don't like my poetry
I'll start writing what I think
you'll start liking.
Either way I'll lose
the reason
I started writing
in the first place."
He pouted,
his lower lip touching
his nose.
"Will I ever get to experience
one of your poems?"
She shrugged. "I mean,
you're currently living one of them."