The poet of sulks.
I had often seen him at a bar,
or at a reading,
sulking through the smoke.
In his pocket
a manuscript crackled
giving off
an acrid smell.
'If they'd shut up,'
his scowl seemed to say,
'I'd show them all
what poetry's about.'
I swear his meanness turned me on.
I took him home.
I fed him rice & shrimps & cheesecake
& white wine.
I tickled his tongue with puns.
The poet of sulks
would have none of this.
He called me trivial
because I like to laugh.
He laid me once & then attacked
my poems & cooking-
which he'd got confused.
'Your cheesecake poem is rather rich,'
he grudged.
'Your rice is overdone.'
I saw that I'd get nowhere
with this guy.
So I began to sulk.
After an hour or two
he finally caught on.
'What's bugging you?'
he asked.
'I'm waiting for the sky to fall,'
I gloomed.
'I'm waiting for the Apocalypse
to fuck me from behind.'
'Do you really think it will?'
he asked.
'I'm sure of it,'
I said.
'Come live with me & be my love,' said he.
Erica Jong
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bait-2/
