I turned to poetry only after it became evident
That the stick-figure drawings of my penis,
I had carefully rendered on museum-grade artist’s papers,
Failed to reach down into the hidden depths
Of any of my lover’s souls and yank back out
Their honest, raw, and feral love for my art.
Instead, they thought themselves bored with it.
I did not believe my poetry capable of inspiring
Anyone’s passion except my own until I met Pookie —
That being the only name she would allow for herself.
Naturally, we married the same hour she declared
Her love of my frozen words, my honest face,
And my three fulsome inches of meat-packed,
Woman-pleasing, bliss-inducing, pump-engine.
Of course there were all too few truly lucrative jobs
Available for an artist-turned-poet,
But we were at last able to make a good life
For ourselves when I discovered the rewards
Of placing side-bets on the outcomes
Of the competitive Evangelical Hallelujah contests
That are held Wednesdays everywhere in the South
And the Midwest these days.