This is a poem.

There will be no happy ending.

This poem will  not get the girl / the boy / the mercedes / the clarity of self it's always dreamed of.
This poem will not self destruct in sixty seconds, sixty years.
It will not be worthy of your attention.
It will not sip martinis while dreaming of its very own anthology.
This poem will not remind you of your mother / father / great aunt / lover.
This poem does not rub elbows with anyone you know.
It will not sing a song of itself / in the shower / water hot.
It will not cross its legs or reference Lenny Bruce.
This poem will not invite you to look up its flirty red dress tail.
This poem will not call you in the morning.
It will not lower case its initials or bitchslap you in a dimly lit stairwell.
This poem will not stir social uprising.
It will not protest on grubby cement sidewalks or sniff markers in 3rd period World Civ.
This poem will not tell you its name.
This poem will not force you to search deep inside your small self.
This poem will not label you manic / depressive / bi / polar / hungry / shit / fuck / ing / cunt.
This poem will not discriminate.
It will not roll green sleeves & dig into your cervix.
It will not make you like it / take it / dream about it.
This poem will not paint with your menstrual fluid.
It will not Jackson Pollock your blood around its living room.
This poem will not even take note of your heartbeat / spit / broken teeth.
This poem will not coddle you, tether you to the bedpost, teach you how to listen.
It will not dust your furniture, bisect your paxil, Ogilvie your hair in the afternoon.
This poem will not quench your thirst.
It doesn't care if you can hear it now.
This poem will not plead passionately.
It will not philosophize.
It will not sodomize.
It will not comb the beard of Jesus or twist pink ribbons into his crown of thorns.
This poem will not rattle its cup, ask for 35 cents a day, send you photos of swollen children.
This poem will not rev its engine while paused at redlights or cut you off in 5 o'clock traffic.
This poem does not wear berry lipliner or black wonderbras.
This poem has never heard John Lee Hooker.
This poem does not declare itself pro-choice / pro-life / anti-drug / anti-goodtime.
This poem will not confiscate your weapon.
It will not duct tape your wrist together while whispering obscenities into your ear.
This poem will not caress your hair & tell you everything's gonna be okay.
This poem will not bake chocolate chip cookies for you.
It will not expect your undying affection.
This poem will not think about you.
It will not remember you.
It will not repeat your name or call you honey / sweet child / baby.
This poem will not kiss you.
It will not feel your teeth.
It will not bite into your forearm.
This poem will not drink Jack Daniels while chewing Tylox.
This poem will not slice its own throat.
It will not Haldol shuffle.
It will not reduce itself to a bloody mess.
It will not bruise itself.
This poem will never take it like a woman.
It will not cover up the stench with Sweet Pea or Love Spell.
This poem will not wrap silver cellophane around its abdomen.
It will not attempt to keep its organs in tact.
This poem will not sit by the phone or wait for your 497 area code to appear on caller ID.
This poem will not allow you to wear your redwings while you fuck it.
It will not oohh nor aahh without cause.
It will not carry your photograph in its Vera Bradley rip-off.
This poem will not recognize you / two years later / hiding / in your cousin's white neon.
This poem will not live its life for you.
It will not breathe eat sleep dream die for you.
This poem will not make you believe.
It will not speculate.
It will not hesitate.
This poem will not save you.
This poem does not give a fuck.
It will not hum anthems

              tell stories 

              lace histories

              reveal meaning

              pay rent

              give blood

              come back

              for more.

This is a poem.

There will be a happy ending.