I saw you tonight
for the first time in years
and you pointed out another old friend
you were with at the bar
I said
I think I wrote a poem about him
I wrote a poem about everyone
You might have wondered
when I said it:
Where’s the poem for me?
For all the tireless nights of listening
to your lovelorn tales
of innocently sleeping next to you
without even trying
to put my hand up your blouse
Where is my poem?

Later
thinking about it
I realized I never wrote one then
about your lack of ulterior motives
or your sweetness
In fact
it was because of those honorable qualities
that I was never smitten with you

I’d like to think I’ve grown past that
but sometimes I wonder

So here’s the poem for you
Scott Martin
I got out of bed to write it
so you would see it when you came here
Whatever you are now
I know you’re still good;
the kind of man
women say they want
even when
they only write poems
for those who break their hearts.