No one talks disparagingly of the appetites of men—
greased hair slicked back,
cigarettes, booze, and women.
they fantasize about the poet’s lifestyle—
nicotine stained fingers
tapping out each letter of the verse
like kisses from hookers
lingering from the night before.
What am I to do?
My own appetites go unanswered—
the word gigolo repulsive from the get go—
there is no beauty
in emerging from the sheets,
hair disheveled, lipstick smeared.
I drink old coffee left in a cup,
dressed in my slip—
hammer out my latest manifesto,
can my inspiration be any less brilliant?
“Pour me a whisky,
make some eggs and get out,
I have work to do,” my voice gruff.
Labeled a cold whore for such behavior—
it doesn’t matter.
I light a cigarette
from the embers of the previous one—
hoping the syllables will follow suit
allowing me to meet my quota for the day.
Butter and eggs fill the air, fresh coffee.
I can still smell the sex hanging in the room
like stale cologne;
there’s no reason for him to stay.
I remain focused on my blank page
waiting for it cum.
2016 copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com