July 13, 2010

don't read this

I’m pretty good
at drinking beer,
picking songs,
and driving stick.

Knotting a tie
in several ways.
Matching meats
for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,
explain meanings of flowers,
fold napkins into roses,
drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled
at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,
find my pants in the dark,
semi-swagger walk,
bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,
stealthy nympho ninja,
while we’re both mid-gait,
in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,
don’t let me talk.
If you talk too,
there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.
A warning, my future ex,
because I’ve learned from bad decisions.
I’m good at sex,
not what comes next.


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