Do you remember that time
we were picking blackberries by the side of the road
and you said you would still try to save her
if you had the chance, even knowing
that she was half-crazy, and one quarter mean,
because she was oh-so tragic
and completely hot?
I don’t say all the things I think to say
nor can I think of all the things I want to say
in a moment like that, when you are fixing to sleep with me
but still banging on and on about the one who got away.
Got away? You dodged a bullet, when
she didn’t give you herpes and screw all
your friends and accuse you of rape and
break your things and make fun of you
behind your back, but still, you are so wistful
that you never got to fuck her.
And I think, but do not say
that all men must be fools
because, like a trail of ants to a trap
you march on eagerly where other have fallen
and think the safe one sour
and the poison one sweet,
and that, anyways, the same fare will always be there
for you to come back to.