the writer's curse

i'm a comedian,
and a runner,
wendy to fraternity lost boys.
my poems get published
and half-acquaintances admit with bourbon breath
how they wish we'd be friends.
a semi-okay baker,
a willing sugar mama,
and the best damn dancer you've ever swayed with.
but i fear it's not enough.

a year.
two cities
constant company & dinners for one.
during happy hours you'll step aside
to take my calls
hand in pocket, tie loosened
interjecting with "mhms"
while you watch the girl from HR
tilt back her beer and laugh.









as much as she knows she's beautiful
and intelligent
and has the power to love
a woman with a pen also knows the writer's curse:
we can see every possible ending.