Thallus, you lump,
Lift your sorry carcass! I want
no more of your clichés —your
Good things come to those who wait—
I who have waited till the cows come home
and never come—
you of the spontaneous overflow
of what you call—powerful feelings,
words worth nothing.
You who love to brag
You’re a big fish in my small pond . . .
Give me back my underpants
and cigarettes
The ones you say you quit smoking—
I am going back to Paris . . .