The Doorstop of Time

The woman in shorts chooses to

remove her own clothes,

even as the men at the café

continue to watch her

without hooting once,

because they have learned

how to contain themselves

while smoldering.

 

Wait, I've got to

write that down.

Wait … okay, now what?

 

You call this a pen?

It barely writes at all.

I can't get anything to come out

when I really need it,

when I'm desperate to get something

down, when the meaning

behind everything has finally

made itself apparent.

Then the pen lets me down

and will not speak for me.

Fucking piece of trash!

I'll take a pencil any day! 

 

And here's a picture of you

at the end of the line

to the great toilet of

fiction, waiting to

relieve yourself 

before the poetry gets to you.

Or worse, the actual poets.

 

And then there was a man pissing in 2 urinals,

going back and forth between them,

saying, “You know how they say

2 heads are better than one?

Well, now I get it!”