Their affair has been tempestuous,
and then some. Like us
they like to get it on,
to rut and hump, bang a gong,
but then grow sullen,
wondering not if but when
the end will come. He says to her:
You’re not all pretty flowers
and hippie skirts, bitch!
And she: If you want to switch
genres go buy a thesaurus,
don’t just mope around all morose
and quasi-narrative. And so it goes.
They criticize each other’s clothes,
her eye for art, his ear for music,
then they hit the sack,
and pledge to give it one more chance.
Theirs is a heterotextual romance.