He said, “Actually, ma’am.
I do give a damn.
Your head is not a place that you live.”
“Away!” She tossed his hand.
“The mind is a poet’s land,
and I find it quite hard to forgive.”
He looked in her eyes,
trying to cut her to size
in a voice of utter condescension.
She said, “That’s your point-of view,
and I’ll be thinking of you
when I give you an honorable mention.
I’m a knitter of words,
using spools of nouns and verbs.
I know how to unravel a sweater.
If you don’t like what I’ll say
in the words that I’ll convey,
then you should think about acting better.
Now, let me be clear.
I’m always sincere
when I recollect on all that’s been said.
Away. I must leave
to think and conceive
and retreat to the words in my head.
I will concede to this:
there are things that I’ll miss,
but I’ve never been fond of condescension.
I’m a poet in short,
and I’m not the tip-toeing sort.
I deal in honorable mention.”