You may ask why
your name doesn’t come up
in my poetry and stories,
songs and essays,
and I’m sorry, my dear,
if I begin to snicker in your face.
Were I to start citing referenced inspiration,
I’d be here all week
and you’d be tired,
so very tired of hearing your name
hiss from my lips,
almost as tired
as I’d be of repeating those same beautiful syllables
in such glorious redundant succession.