Oh Marni, of the big boobs
and the spiky hair
from my favorite cafe
in the village,
if we were to collect
all the poems I failed to write about you
thanks to my own self-censor
and pile them into a charnel house
for determinate disposal,
that would be a good thing.
Even the poems I did write about you
lust filled screeds
of a post-adolescent, tit-obsessed talking zit
are not worth mentioning
despite the fact I just did.
Marni, you deserved better attentions than mine,
and I’m pretty sure you got them
and I hope the non-existent poems
they failed to write about you
are being tossed off right now
to some imaginary charnel house
even as we speak.