My pen is a fickle lover.  She tells me
such stylized lies.  “This is not goodbye,


Just a temporary parting.”  “When will you
return?” I ask.  She draws


Some unintelligible mark upon the page.
“That ain’t really none of your business,” she says.


Then says, “Wait for me.”  So each day
I scrub and preen myself


to a shiny newness for a woman
who may or may not come. 


She relishes playing
the coquette.  I go about arranging


the minutiae upon my desk.   Posing myself
how I think she might like me best.  Nude,


clothed, or some soporific state of dishabille.
Then I must wait and wait some more


or pretend . Sharpen pencils, gather
My assiduous notes. But I never let my mind wander


to whomever else’s crotch she might be holding.
I stare at the screen believing


she will come. Because the day I any doubts
I’ll have to let her go.