The Bait, by Erica Jong

The Bait
(With apologies to Sir Walter Raleigh, Christopher Marlowe, John Donne, et al.)

From Half-Lives

The poet of sulks.
I had often seen him at a bar,
or at a reading,
sulking through the smoke.

In his pocket
a manuscript crackled
giving off
an acrid smell.

"If they'd shut up,"
his scowl seemed to say,
"I'd show them all
what poetry's about."

I swear his meanness turned me on.
I took him home.

I fed him rice & shrimps & cheesecake
& white wine.
I tickled his tongue with puns.

The poet of sulks
would have none of this.
He called me trivial
because I like to laugh.

He laid me once & then attacked
my poems & cooking--
which he'd got confused.

"Your cheesecake poem is rather rich,"
he grudged.
"Your rice is overdone."

I saw that I'd get nowhere
with this guy.
So I began to sulk.

After an hour or two
he finally caught on.

"What's bugging you?"
he asked.

"I’m waiting for the sky to fall,"
I gloomed.
"I'm waiting for the Apocalypse
to fuck me from behind."

"Do you really think it will?"
he asked.
"I'm sure of it,"
I said.

"Come live with me & be my love," said he.