63

This is a cat-call wrapped around a brick,

and yours is not the first, nor is the last.

The thought it might connect… (Stand back—I’m sick.)

You spoke one word; I never heard the blast.

Don’t think my words won’t drip for her—for her—

a condom wrapper blowing in the wind.

I gave them all my tongue! Their faces blur!

Though, not a word in love would I rescind!

They’ll likely never think of it again,

won’t press the rose in yellow pages, blank,

will not appear by magic, (count to ten,)

won’t hate me, overlong. I give them thanks.

One more, two more… I meter out my love.

I’ve written sixty sonnets, none above!