Winningly, maybe with a little wink on the inside,
she says, “When are you gonna write a poem about me?”
“Oof,” I say, “If you knew how many poems I’ve written about you…”
“You’ve written about me?” She laughs, hitting me, “What poems?”
“They’re all about you!” I shout. “The ones written in the nineties, too,
before I knew you! No,” I continue, “You have to figure that out for yourself.
They’re all available at the website”
She pouts, but I don’t mind. Maybe this way,
I can get her to actually read my work.