Teri Geahlen
WHAT I DID LAST SUMMER
A year ago today you and I were
at that part of our whatever where
the alarm had already gone off,
and we were hitting the snooze bar
again and again, ignoring the inevitable
seven minutes at a time.
I’ve thrown out the bitter second
half of this poem that I wrote last night
at way the hell past my bedtime
(though I have to stress that it was all
the Pepsi at the theater that kept me
up and not you, no, not at all)
because I’m so tired of feeling like
an all-day sucker.
And I want my friends to know
that I really have recovered although
that delightful little urge
to kick the crap out of you recurs
from time to time, never totally unwelcome
or unwarranted.
This is what my last poem about you looks like.
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