Much later, of course, I’d be sorry.
But it was the cruelty of spring
twisted me into such a state,
I should have stopped taking the speed.
But June was imminent and that meant skin,
and the tulips looked mercenary.
Don’t you remember Chartreuse
you pinned me with tickles
until I screamed?
Benedictine monks made
such a potent elixir for youth
but what did they know?
A lifetime wasted in a monastery.
I’ve forgiven you, for your ambivalence
and arrogance. For all the time
you spent in the same tired suit
of erudition and for constantly
hogging the remote to the TV.
I just can’t get past me.