I refuse to fall
for you
like something
from a clumsy
childhood dive
into a chat driveway
tearing my pants
and digging
little grey rocks
from my hands after
and then the red stuff
that burns.
(This is gonna
sting a little.)
I refuse to fall
for a(nother)
25 year old girl
with smoky eyes,
slender wrists,
and ankles that
fit perfect
in my hands.
Please.
I refuse to fall
for golden brown skin
freckled just below
collar bones that
seem carved by God
if he were an artist
like Picasso who
continued to fall
in baby-making love
with girls terribly young
and beautiful as you
until he died.
I refuse even if
you pour me whiskeys
and tell me that
you support my writing
and wear my face
on white panties
next to your
oh my goodness.
I refuse to,
even if you are
my first coffee smile
and my hope I dream
as I lay myself down
to sleep.
I refuse to fall in love with you
(or even write you a poem).
