i wonder, if a poem
in your in box each morning
is lost on you

if you miss it
but i think not

i think poetry
means nothing
it is like art to you

it something you wish
you could like more
but know you are not
one of those who does

so poetry or crude drawings
of you under a christmas tree
is just musing of a moron

with me being the moron

i don’t think i made the dent
that was my intent with the
free verse words that rambled to you

with the colloquialisms of
not your first language

two drinks into the wind
thoughts of mine

but please know
you are the slippery beauty
that is the impetus of longing

and my desire for your 
eros of epos

with all the accoutrements
of my lust that distills for you