Page O' Poems  

      Dinner: Rice-a-Roni and a Bottle of Red Wine

I will write you drunken poetry.
I will coat my tongue in Merlot velvet
    and whisper soft lies to paper.
What lies? What rhyming lies shall I whisper to you?
I will tell you these things:

I cannot tell you how I feel.
Words are not long enough for my passion.
Indeed, my passion is too long for words!
But come into my bed and I will volunteer my passion.
It will be enough for both of us.
My long, long, wordless passion. This worthless rhythm.
All night long.

See, I can be cocky with my lies. Cocky in velvet.
Now I shall be sweet:

You are honey to me. Sugar. Syrup.
I am stuck on you like an ant on a moistened cherry lollipop.

See how I bring my cocky
velvet to bear, even on your cherry
lollipop? And some call it a sucker!

A sucker for my velvet lies?
None such as I.
Here.
Here are my lies. My true lies.
Here are the lies I tell myself:

Your navel means nothing to me, nor your tongue.
I never think about the catch of your breath,
    or the way your back arches,
    or even that long shaky sigh.
Your voice is never in my head.
I never lie awake because of your skin
    or the tightening of your breast
    or the green-grey-blue of your eyes.
In fact, I rarely even think about you.

Such are my cocky velvet Merlot lies.
I tell them for a reason.
Shh! Don't spread them around.

--Z.T. 16 Dec 2001

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