The Cycle of Infinite Sorrow

“Why is it that you make me look like such a jackass

in all your poems?”

Samuel looked at me with a saddened frown on his face.

“I mean,” he said, “I’m a pretty smart guy,

I went to college and I make a shitload of money now.”

He looked at my face, trying to read my expression.

“Is it because you want to feel superior to me even though

I’m doing so much better than you in real life?”

His brow furrowed as he slipped deep into thought.

“What are you scribbling down in your notepad?

Is it some more notes about my little foibles? What is it?”

Craning his neck, he tried to peek at what I was furiously jotting down.

“Fuck! Ass! Cock! Balls!

Put that in your poems about me, you scrotum bag!”

He began pumping his fist in the air in defiance.

I smiled craftily at him as I transcribed every single word

of his monologue before

He could steal the notepad away.