09-07 Two Gentleman From Portland

He plucks their roses so viciously.

I wonder...

if Shakespeare,
was a single, gay,
man,
to write so incredulously,
pretty, trite, catty, and witty,
on the cappuccino affairs,
of the heart,
of men and their hearts,
slow grinding the beans to perfection,
for the balanced cup of acid and cream,
only,

poets and scholars would
have you believe,
this Clark Kent facade
was inspired by the foundation of
true and earnest love,

but,
would a devout, honest man,
by mirage of the moon,
parley with men in their gardens,
with swords for affection,
appeal to his priests for potions of forgiveness,
childishly assuming only faeries could resolve the
afflictions
of his heart,

who is this delicious man,
who sits with me on a fair fall afternoon,
scratching at his beard,
pointing out two gentleman,
sparring over beauty,
as worth,
what do they know of desire?
(eyeing me over a cup of iced coffee)
forgetting,
the third, the always, the one,
who whispers to me,
watch this,
he says, casually,
ink stains on his fingers,
brushing my leg.

He plucks their roses,
so,

viciously.