I Can't Find A Plural For "You". Poem by Alistair Plint

If we
just
lay it out
on a table
The truth would be
something as ridiculous
as you stole
my marriage
[and I loved it]

I'd do it again too…
over
and
over

It's most likely
that my pen
wrote the future
in a history context

I'm not claiming to be Houdini
but
she'd have stayed
if I never met you
or
studied your panties
while I
wrote
her goddam
end

You're just a bucket of lust
that's why I love
you

Then again
I don't write the truth

I do
butterflies, flowers
birds, worms
and
bees.


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