that you would reject me,
find me ridiculous, a wannabe
writer, overweight, no Don Juan,
rather, picture a slob with no dough,
a disappointment, with maxed-out credit
cards, who when he finds in his tea a roach floating
in that special mug that says “Am I barmy for loving you?” drinks
it anyway because he can’t afford to throw the tea away, that skint
—though said cockroach was defunct, not doing the backstroke, grinning
at me reciting from Blake or Corso or Ferlinghetti. Yes dear I am desperate, so
desperate I have staked ALL—my life, my career, my empty accounts—on you loving me.
