jealous writers all around
on the bookshelves, on the ground
in the bathroom, on the fridge
perched on every unwelcome inch
how am i supposed to rest
much less think, write, and piss
when all these men and anxious ladies
wearing frocks and old-time panties
are longing to be understood
opened, touched, and again consumed
outside, the readers are running wild
another husband, another child
but the writers never change
never die, never age |