For You, Again
Another sorrowful dalliance in the field of youth; More wounds to lick and to bandage over With words of my own creation Again I froze up before her As this frog crawled in my throat And presented Himself
A better candidate for your kiss For when shall I ever become a prince?
No, instead I slink home to scribe you sickly sweet sibilance
Dreaming of kissing your quatrains; Or running my hands through every silken strand of your stanzas.
But I am Willy, Not Romeo And you are the Juliet to end all Juliets. So again, I bury my What For Am I Doings in ‘Wherefore art thou’s And comparisons to summer days.
Lord knows I’d give thee flowers, if I weren’t such a prick Magnet, attracting countless thorns to finger tips. I’d graduate from diaphora to date night If I were not a dick -Ted to failure.
I know sonnets and limericks, and ballads and songs But nothing of flirting or courting or thongs I recall Larkin and Lovecraft, but neither of these Can give me the talk of the birds and the bees Or teach me to make her weak at the knees Or show me how I become Adam to Eve
So I guess yet again I’ll just leave
And walk home in the night and think.
Think now, of what will get me ahead Think now, of how to find me your bed Think now, how to rid me of dread I think now, I’ll write you another poem instead.