She walks without a stutter
in her high heel books
and her low-necked poems
get her long enjambed looks.
But there’s a limp in her throat
when she thinks of him
and his hard, ripped verse
and his slant-rhymed limbs.
So she slips on her finest
red metaphors—
oh her silken triolets
are iambic whores
and sooner than swoon
all her tropes slide off
as his trochees meet her spondees
and there aren’t beats enough
for all the grooves they scan
as their feet go fractal.
Let’s free verse it, baby,
he whispers in her dactyl.
