Ho Bag

I don'tcare
if another poem
never
comes my way.
I used to pine for them
all day
the way
a lovesick boy
pines for his girlfriend
to return.

You know,
the kind of girlfriend
who's spending hours
at her dealer's crib,
and balling him, too,
and doesn't give a damn
what
she's putting
her you through.

It's taken me decades,
but I've finally
gotten it through
my thick, sick, skull
that my muse
is a playah
and doesn't give a good goddamn
what
she puts me through.
She only cares about
what she wants to do.

So I'm
not pining
for poetry
though I'm prepared
to enjoy her
if she,
sloppy seconds and all,
ever
turns up.

by Doug Lane

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