Greedy

if i am writ­ing to you again
(and it seems odd, i admit)
i turn to you to lament

if i am writ­ing to you now,
i con­fess, it is merely
pro­cras­tin­a­tion: i should be
writ­ing dull news for other readers

partly, this letter is because
it seems you have now found
some­thing we both were seeking
it is a gift

for my side of it, i watch
this pro­ces­sion of women
(there, you see: always i
write to you of women)

who kiss me and leave for England
who kiss me and leave for Scotland
who kiss me and turn back to their men
who kiss me and don’t return calls
who kiss me but don’t want it seen

this is no euphemism:
mostly this does­n’t even get
as far as a bed

it’s fair to say, some go
because i am also turning
to a man – but not ‘back’,
never ‘back’ to him

if i’m going to be with her
it’s fully and there and right now
after all, i don’t write poems
about him

maybe it’s because i
claim a space for our kind
rather than deny he’s there

or play the charade
which chooses other identities
and blurts the truth in muttered
shad­ows, eyes averted

of course, this letter
won’t be sent: you don’t
need to hear it when you are newly
con­tent, and were alone for so long
while i at least – yes, all right –
have him, and should­n’t be greedy.