romeo and not-so-much

So I tell you I hate poetry.
I tell everyone that. And it’s true.
The things I do for you.
You see, poetry is entirely untrustworthy, there is not
a word in it usually that couldn’t be said in prose,
so why bother.
Still I do, I bother again and again,
bother you and myself to distraction.
I print with trepidation and send with trembling fingers
(exclusively by post, never email)
claiming all the while that poetry -
not my thing.
Then I sit, my teeth chattering,
and wait for your reply.
And if you don’t reply, further living loses its purpose.
More so if you do.
Again and again and again and a gain - no gain, actually -
I proclaim my mistrust for all things poetic,
including for the sake of it sunrises and sunsets,
and Florence, and spiders, and baby feet, and trochee, and and
suddenly, an epiphany.
Just as suddenly, all gone.
Aren’t you in the least bit romantic,
you sometimes ask.
No, is my steady answer,
as my fingers cross shakily behind my shivering back.
The things I do for you
- are, in fact, not that many.