Poetry is far superior to men

Poetry never leaves you and
there’s a poem for every occasion.

Poetry doesn’t hesitate to talk about its feelings.
It is beautiful, aesthetically;
rarely farts, or burps.

It never ghosts or
leaves you on ‘read’.
You can do that to it, instead,
sans conséquence.

If poems are misogynists,
it’s easy and quick to find another:
turn the page.
Poems never batter their wives
or murder you as you sleep.

Poetry is open to new ideas.
It can listen, grow, learn.
A poem allows you to change, too;
it’s never jealous or scared—
or if it is, admits that.
Poems are adaptable.

A poem doesn’t gaslight and
it can’t run away
when you need it the most.
Poetry is free,
sans expectation.
It might not often buy you dinner,
but it never whines for a fuck.

A poem is always
respectful,
never changing the rules
in flagrante,
never angling not
to wear a condom
‘cos it feels better.
You can learn it, line by line.

A poem won’t insist
on sexual gratification:
not for itself
and certainly not for you.
It won’t make you feel faulty
– if you don’t like oral
– if you never come
– if you freeze up, or
– if you talk too much.

If you invite a poem to a wedding,
it will respond—
immediately—
and be there
on the day;
with bells on,
should bells be required.
A poem is appropriate.

A poem is quite subtle.
Its vocabulary does not include vomit emoji.
Nor any emoji, really.
A poem is quite
subtle.
Quite erudite.
Quite.

A poem is thoughtful,
complementary.
Trustworthy.
If it tells you something beautiful,
that will still be true tomorrow.
It runs not hot and cold.

A poem remembers.
A poem cares.
It is steadfast and loyal—
even unto the day that you die.
And it is eternal.

A poem, when it holds you
in its words, in its lines,
immortalises you.
A man’s grip, lesser, breaks with death.

A poem is far superior to a man,
if somewhat lacking
in flesh.

The hu-man mystery, embodied,
can be charming indeed.