I pursue her in poetry because
she is far too menacing to follow
through her front doors.
My envelopes get laid
on top of her dark oak desk—
and always return to me by
blue lipstick kissing liberty bells;
Her lips shaped by days, months,
Just her queer sense of humor,
I think. And the pages I typed
are perfumed by her sweater;
Proof that she’s read me.
She encloses an attachment,
rejecting me again—
“Although,” she writes—
I “show promise” and I “should try again
in 3-6 months.”
“Have you turned 40 yet?”
Ahhhhhh, she must like older men.
I stuff my mattress with our letters
and make love to my other women
on top of her denials.
They always complain my bed is lumpy.
If only they knew that she is to blame
for all my restlessness.
She will someday accept me as a writer
with something more than just potential.
Until then, it’s back to the mailbox,
sending out more love letters.