Don't you just love it when you wake up at 10 and realize that you have to write a poem with a narrative and a conceit by 11?
I was looking for a fun way
to pass my Saturday night
so I went to this place down the street.
I picked you out and took you home
because you looked interesting—
I hate it when clichés are true:
you can’t judge a book by its cover.
I should have known by the stares of mild annoyance
as I checked you out
picked you out
and took you home.
I thought you could hold my attention
and keep me enthralled
even if it was just for an evening.
I was so eager to get you
when I got home I jumped into bed
and laid your spine in front of me
and opened you up.
I started to lap you up
soak you in
and almost instantly got bored.
I tried. I really tried.
But I just couldn’t go through with it.
I tried rationalizing it. I tried reasoning it.
It wasn’t you; it was me. I was in the mood
for something Russian and decadent.
It had nothing to do with you, honest.
And in a moment of frustration
(I couldn’t stand you just staring at me like that)
I tossed you off the bed
onto the floor
hoped to never see you again
and hoped you got the message.
But no. I’m a good guy at heart
I got back in my car
and drove you back
I even walked you to the door
before shoving you back inside.
I got back in my car and waited five minutes
before I went back in
and tried finding someone else.
After all, I was lonely
and it was a Saturday night.