Hell Hath No Fury
Never wrong a poet.
She'll bushwhack you
with passive-aggressive apostrophes.
She'll trap you in similes as
binding as matrimony.
Experts will call her brilliant, and
much to your chagrin, spend hours
analyzing and explicating, in hopes
of excavating the lowlife this literary
martyr is speaking to.
Never wrong a painter either.
She'll paint you crouching naked in the woods,
or in other compromising positions,
in your ratty robe, with your five o'clock shadow,
the sports page, and your sulk, when you're not looking,
or else with a demon's red glare,
or else as a woman,
or worst yet, as you are.
And wherever you look, you will find
yourself in a gallery of you.
And when they see you again,
they will thank you