Blind Date with a Poem

     
The bitch on the tip of my tongue        
came out all wrong        
She wasn't sexy at all        
even when I dressed up her words        
with a flashy new font        
stripped them to the bone        
& edited their ass off        
still she sat        
poetic legs firmly crossed        
frowning on the page        
duller than a blind date nightmare        
with the Vogons        
       
She seemed as frumpy        
as old Granny Gluebones in a tweed suit        
peering through horn-rimmed glasses        
the ingredients of her poetic juice      
all dried up & confined to dust        
under her rusty whalebone corsets      
a surefire recipe for writer's block        
       
So I tried my best        
to tickle her verbs        
I sprinkled her adjectives with spice
jiggled her stanzas        
& teased her internals with rhyme       
but she never even winked        
       
Her verses were playing hard to get        
I would need more than a literary dildo--        
even Shakespeare might struggle      
to find a finger of inspiration here        
but my poet's pride demanded a result        
after all        
I was paying for her lines        
with my time        
       
Then at last        
on the cab ride home        
the miracle happened        
We were thrown together        
by a bump in the road        
& suddenly        
gracing the city lights        
her scent seemed headier  
than a classic rose        
       
In the twitch of a heartbeat        
she'd let her hair down        
taken off her glasses        
& unbuttoned the top of her blouse          
       
Her legs were no longer crossed        
       
Oh, she said:        
Is this what you want?        
       
Now, am I your kind of poem?