PANTS ON FIRE

I don't care that you took my money,

sold me rags that don't exist, you who

hinted naughtily at hammocks and chandeliers

the size of your shoe, gaped wondrously

at my books and art, shook out your hair,

said no way you teased the neighbor lady

just east and west this way.  Okay,

no magazines, no "good cause." Scoundrel.

What you took was so much more ---

my psychosis -- iatragenic at that!

Damn you, at 28, a god, flirting with lashes

longer than does'.....merciless, you halved me

chronologically.  I wonder how many swoons

you sack per second, how many panties wet 

with one wink.  I am fifty-five f***ing years old!

You plunged my tongue into the Fountain,

then crimped the spigot!

I'll never forgive you,

your face, your words, your shoe.