It Is a Cliché

                                And I do not even want to look at you right now.
I will go to my room
To write, and I will come back when I am ready and re-sweet on you.

That’s better. I am rested for more sessions.
My future children are dead for us. My own child
Lives on instead and he is sick and hot

From this troubled and patterned relationship
With both of you while I pretend it’s me in charge, that someone
Could ever be in charge as I smile

At the puzzle of who conceived who in this triangle, for it is unfamiliar
And lifelike and no way to be, yet I relish
The rising and falling valleys of home that leave me soaked

In discharge still, consenting sometimes, this feeling
Being poetic and lonesome with you always, you who is amusing—or
A muse—for a man who cannot cut that cord, these strings; and that is

All better again now—accepted, weathered, cried;
Thank you!—and I am finally growing up, making love
For all my girls and girls like a good boy.