I Don't Write Shitty Poetry

I was sitting outside a Loop café,
just reading a book, enjoying the day.
I heard you sit down, you rattled your chair,
I was struck by perfume, sweet in the air.

Not looking up, I imbibed your smell sweet,
and wondered “who’s this?” that smells like a treat.
Intoxicating smell, but I was shy,
and hoped you were as lovely to the eye.

I stayed in my book, eyes not wavering.
Shy before beauty, the life I’m living.
I read, reread the same boring line thrice,
Distracted by your Mmmmm!—sweet, fragrant spice.

I turned a dull page, pretending to read,
but decided to sate my probing need:
To see if your face, compared to your smell,
for if it did, wouldn’t things be so swell!

(A face half-beautiful as your sweet scent,
meant an angel was nearby, heaven-sent!)

So I closed my book, and prepared to look
to confirm or deny my hopes.
And what I saw,--my God, let me withdraw--
flung me against the wiry ropes.

Turning my head, I was so filled with dread—
Can I be as blunt as I can?
Someone like you smelling beautiful too
should not—I repeat, not—have been a man!