Pick Up Truck
for D.B.A.

here I am so insecure
without confidence about where I stand in our affair

if I did- if I was it might not have mattered
but with me sitting there
we three sharing the truck's one seat
and you can say to our friend, the driver
the same sort of flirtatious things you'd say to me

give him the very same reason-
extent to him exactly what you extend-
what you'd extend to me

these openings- these doors
invite us push upon them, open, enter

I am placing these papers here between us
said he, and plagiarizing added,
so you'd not think I'm feeling you up
or think I want to

feeling you up even as he says what he said
and you remark in your delicious womanish way
I wouldn't let them get between us

I unable to believe my ears
and if you'd talk like this and in my presence
what encouraging things would you exchange
when I am not around

or is it that I do not matter, present or absent
what are my feeling to acknowledge
what is our relationship to respect
or to genuflect before or about

what is much too real to me
is to you like next to nothing

you are free to flirt with whomever
whenever you choose

thought such delicious, intimate tidbits
were for me to take and to partake of

anyone or any man it seems
can have a taste, can have a bit

that was like piece you gave, you shared
on the truck's front seat in my presence

what am I to feel but envy, but jealous
when I haven't even a vehicle

outside of poetry, can I rival what
he has to offer

and without affirmation with which
I am made to live; our affair, yours and mine
is hardly any more, hardly any deeper
than that moment of exchange you shared

how can I help but envy, be jealous
when you give away the very same candies
you give me

when I am allowed no more than these
or am I or is it that I make more of them

I make poems of what is handed to me
making poem- poetry also
of what you hand to another man, to other men
of what you'd fuckin' hand them in my presence

you do not mind how much you kill me, do you
how severely or how quickly, do you

those few notes exchanged, given away
and nothing as sweet was said to me
all the rest of the day we were together

nothing at all as thrilling as that exchange
was painful to me

went through me like a hole through the day
and any joy which might have occurred
just leaked right out like a bucket
with a hole in it


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
6:35 a.m. 26.09.10