The End of the Poem / simone leid

I am lonely tonight
and a fucking poem is not going to help
I have groomed and cajoled and primped
and primed some stupid poem all day long
and when it was done
when the anxiety of getting it just right
had diffused “poof!” in the air
I was left sticky and hot
needing a shower
and so I had a shower
and in the shower it occurred to me that
a poem is like a shaved pussy
pointless—if nobody’s ever going to see it
and so I shaved my pointless pussy
and cursed that damn awful poem
all intriguing and abstract and
erotic in that ‘its-so-fine- I-wanna-make
a-dress-out-of-it-and-walk-around
the-post-office’ kind of way
make all the other inferior postcards
from St. Vincent and boring letters from long
lost sons turn that sad yellowish-brown
colour. Yeah.
Did I mention I hate poems?
and the way they’re never good enough
like everything I do is never good enough
and even when it is, it’s just a half-moon
a trickle of light in a sombre sky
a distraction, seat filler
brand new lacy underwear
sitting in the drawer.

•••