I don’t know what you heard
or read
or misconstrued from misunderstood context clues
but I’m not talking shit about you.
I’m not talking about you at all.
I haven’t given you so much as a thought
since we ran into each other last month.

So… OK, yes,
last month
you DID find me crouching
in the bushes outside of your grandma’s rest home
but that just happens to be
where I do all my best crouching
so…
a coincidence.

Also a coincidence?
Those poems that you think are about you?
They are not.
I might have lifted some small number of facts
from our time together
and used then to flesh out a piece or two
but honestly,
I don’t know if I could say which data
comes from us
and which comes from all the other women I been bangin’
since we went out.

I’m not writing about you.
I’m not thinking about you.
I’m certainly not caring about you
anymore.
I don’t know
what makes you think
I’m not over you
– even if you did see my new chapbook
on the billboard
across from your boyfriend’s place.

That title isn’t even about you.
For Janie Smith Who Fucked Me Thirty Seven Times and Then Dumped Me for a Richer Guy?
It could be anyone
and it is.
Not you.

Wanna buy a copy?