i watched - diligent and patient -
as you devoured my poems.
turning pages like sheet music,
your eyes pacing.
until the way you lace your shoes
distracted my skeptical eye
and the hole in the left toe and the
dirty nature of your rolled up jeans
and the smell of the stale tea
in my cup.
redirected by a terrible smirk.
i began to count pages,
trying to deduce what provoked you.
before i finished counting
i got angry again, for
the speed i was swallowed,
you interpreted me;
you read it too fast
to want to sleep with the poet.