This Just in From Laurel Snyder

Poem without italics
--for Tony and The New Sincerity


You have to leave your italics at the boat house, have
to ask the dark-haired girl in the boat to step ashore
and walk with you— a ways. She’s wearing a skirt.

When she says no, you have to be able—to ask
her again. The boat house is peeling. That’s all right.
Really, that’s ok. The boat house has a purpose.

It’s about rain on the blacktop, honestly. It’s about you.
Yes, you. Rain on the porch roof. Rain says, “Will you come
outside a minute? I have something important to say.”

You have to be able to quote Springsteen and mean it.
The wind does whisper, and you can’t edit everything.
Cliché’s abound on the good nights. There are good nights.

So you have to listen. Sex, and red wine, then a guitar.
Or the order is wrong, but that doesn’t matter as much as
I’m sorry. I should know better. I really should. Shame.

A peach. We were dancing once, and I was sweaty,
at the concert. When the song changed I put my
tongue in your mouth. It was hot. It makes me hot just—

I put my hand in my pocket. It’s a reflex. I can take it
Out again if I want to. No I can’t. Yes I can. You try!
There are things we aren’t allowed to say, so we say them.

Oh! Goddamn! Anything! With! Too! Much! Punctuation!
Means something to someone. What’s the worst you can do?
“Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain.”

All the words belong to someone else. We only borrow.
And the wrong words matter too. Like a game of hangman,
you’re only guessing, until you know what you want.

The wrong words help you. The letters rearrange. The same
letters over and over. Where will you put the stress? When
will you come out onto the porch? I love. There— now what?