"You don't understand.
Sometimes when me and her fight,
if I had enough gas in the van
I'd drive to your place and take you by force."
He holds me to him, jumps when the door knob jiggles
even though she's not due home another hour.
He wishes that kiss had felt wrong;
it must be difficult being so torn
and not torn at all.
Playing with the boundaries means nothing is clear.
His face pinches when people bitch about Metairie,
pounds his chest, "I make my own culture,"
while we in the city seek out and not find it.
His bravado is supposed to be embarrassing.
In the van, he smiles at how clever
"Be still my throbbing cock."
I laugh at him on the carpet.
I guess once I wanted to show him
the grey area he can't learn
But I have to make soup;
I have to get sleep for tomorrow.
Aside: I saw Girl on the Bridge a few days ago, and in it the girl said that bad luck is like an ear for music; you either have it or your don't. This is how I felt about men when this was written (1998), and I'm trying not to feel that way now. Wish me luck.