Petr Did Not Want Poetry

Petr commanded no praise from any man
and not from my lips
she stood with her legs spread in the rain
purple and defiant of the storm
deafening the deluge
as if M. Nature could be brought to silence

Petr in wet rags could not be bothered
she was planted like wet corn
her ragged jumper ruined
pasted over her in a thin film

her angry war was tantric
and erotic
a sweet bitter perfume followed after
she smelled like the color of blood
she would not be bought
not by thunder
or whatever silly gods threw at one another
willy-nilly across the black dark

Petr was petulant
she was known to throw her own kind of javelin
she was known to be electric
a fox, even
overseeing with keen eye the duck's flight
but evading the hunter in his orange fedora
she would not have me lourde in her lap
the accumulation of all my unending adoration
with certainty
she would have my lips at work
overworked
but not with ovation, and not with poetry.

TA