I’m a waitress, I say
And Sir looks at my chest. Loin
Cooked to your liking? Murmur
Handing over the steak.
Who doesn’t like meat?
The vegetarians, you say,
And vegans, I nod agreeing
Lesbians? Your date butts in.
And we laugh but I hate you.
I’m a poet, I whisper in insistent instants
And duck away.
I should flee in black-cape to my misty night.
But all I have is goodwill rags and grimy street-streaked light.
Trade this, tit
For chomp. tip
For a romp, as
with all things,
Am I right?
Now tell us of love, they say, from your lover’s one dictation and your dreams.
Does Freud apply to your childhood?
What school of thought?
Are you more Homer, or Virgil?
And we all sigh. Because those questions don’t matter,
only medium, rare, or well done?