A POEM - GIMME MY RIGHT TO WRITE

GIMME MY RIGHT TO WRITE
“dear,” I said, looking upon her body,
Just being completely disgusted with her it,
And her face and her grubby feet and her eyes,
But mostly with the fact that she’d knock on my door,
Let herself in, lie down on my bed
and just begin to talk and talk and talk,
about how she had pains in her crotch
and how somebody had caused it with voodoo,
and how in the end god would take care of her,
and give her the fortune of finding true love.
“I’m trying to write a fuckin’ book, here!
You gotta go! Shooo!”