(A poem about a confession)

I have a confession

But how to tell you
without dashing any cool I may have, I don't know.
It's not like I WANT to be this way

... I just, well, kind-a am.

(Enough procrastinating)
So here it is, in all its dowdy glory:

I like poetry.

No. It's more than that,
I LOVE poetry.

I read poetry, God, I even write the stuff.
The Boss tells me 'it's okay, we're all different,
that I need to love me for who I am.

But I don't know.

Like for instance. I'm at a party and I tell people
I'm the new ShopGirl with The Sexy Bookstore,
and even if people aren't into sexy books

(and some people aren't)

they still nod and smile and say things like,
oh right, that must be interesting.

But tell people you're hot for poetry
and you're toast. Socially speaking.

Unless, and this is the odd thing,
they write poetry, and then you're thinking,
oh God, please don't make me read it.

So if I'm not here next week
and there's a new Shop Girl (or Boy)
talking about how they're

so hot for sex

and doing all this sexy stuff all the time
(looking just like they do on the telly)

think of me

with my pencil behind my ear
trying to find a job such as this one -

where reading erotic books
is in the contract!