Faith Paulsen

Just where do you think you’re going
dressed like
that? Who do you think you are
behaving like
a spoiled brat
whining about
traffic, weather, love,
itchy collars? Dropping bombs
f- and
otherwise, arrogant, irresponsible,
making a fool of
me? No poem of mine
will ever be seen in public committing
adverbs, perpetrating vagaries,
shoplifting metaphors,
drunkenly, mind-
less-
ly
littering the landscape with
outrageous punctuation,
smoky patchouli and loneliness.
Over my dead body.
Your cleavage
(between hopes and abilities)
is showing. Go
upstairs young lady.
Cover those
inadequacies. Put on something
decent. Then and only then
I will drive you to the dance.