by Samuel De Lemos

No matter what I do
I can’t get it right. I
can’t dance correctly, I’m
harassed because I
missed a payment on
my only bill.

Women are fierce creature’s:
giving life at a drop of a hat
then sucking the life out of you
when you get too fat.

They curse—
if you drink a little too much.
They scream—
when you take a small nap
in the middle-of-the-day.

I’m frowned upon
because my socks don’t match.
When I defend myself and
just can’t come up with the
right words,

at the end of it—
I’m a fuck up through-and-

Evil creature’s
dot, dot, dot.

But, I like the way they smell.
The soft contours of their hips.
The way their hair lithely falls.
The beautiful fair skin
found at the nape of their neck.

I’m a sucker,
a chump;
as soon as I see my woman
walk nearby
I feel my heart skip and jump
then the blood rushes, and
I salivate at the dirty pictures
I draw in my head.
I tell her meekly,
“yes dear you were right.”
(I’m no fool.)