flirting with poets

 

You don't realize how easy it is to drown
in sensual metaphors
until they're
repeatedly rubbed down your spine
in fruitful attempts
at getting in your bed.

They say words like "passionate" a lot.
I don't ever remember a fuck
that could near those words.
But it sounds nice,
so I let them keep talking
as we hide under coffee tables,
under bridges,
somewhere at the top of the world.

And then, when they call
and you're flipping through
an old collection of dead poet's words
and they speak in riddles,
dirty, dirty riddles
you find
that it's so easy for them to plunder.
The human gets the best of us -
and I can't blame them.
It just reminds me
of the sick game.

A sadness, a realization
that this isn't
what I ever expected
to love about poetry.