My Wife Is Mad At Her Would-Be Poet
My wife is angry with me tonight,
She said I gawked
at a young lady’s buttocks
in Wal-Mart.
I explained
that such an action was rude,
and I would never do that,
that I’m too old for such foolishness;
but
I’m having “Raisin Bran” for supper.
It was quite
on the ride home.
I unloaded Wal-Mart bags,
got online,
typed in my password,
drank a six pack of beer,
smoked a half pack of Sports
(the cheaper brand of cigs to die from)
while reading all I could find
by Charles Bukowski
(Bukowski wasn’t a poet,
not in the ordinary sense.)
She wouldn’t hand me a beer.
She wouldn’t talk to me.
That’s Ok,
I didn’t do anything wrong,
and I can get my own beer.
I’m avoiding her by writing this thing,
this poem, or whatever you want to call it.
Tomorrow I’ll post this thing
in Poetry Soup.
Poetry Soup is an online poetry forum.
They (the poets)
have already found me out.
I can’t write;
one or two poems
was all the proof
needed.
No one will read this
but that’s Ok too.
After all, in the ordinary sense
I’m not a poet either.
I’ll finish this thing,
drink the rest
of my other six pack,
wad an empty cig wrapper,
toss it to the trash.
She’ll be asleep by then,
then I can sneak into bed
rest my drunk head
on a soft pillow and
dream about that fine,
young tail at Wal-mart.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2008
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