Well,
some nights
may you retire
to my blank verses
about purple men.
planting and pointing out purple gas at stations
creating a shoemaker’s ten, pointed, rounded, tightened,
headless hats.

some nights
my purple men
regard my blank verse
as a LOONY BIN A LUNATIC
they scrawl all across
sinks floating around
dumpsters knocking midnight lamps’ houses

My purple man
says constantly I ought
not to choose between free verse and rhymes
“you can shed, your tragedies here
but that is all you can ever afford
and why do you WOMEN
LOVE WOMEN” he shouts
and caresses my breasts with his yellow nail, blue nail and pink nail
“you can almost feel it” and he kisses my throat and summons his 2 AM lovers
“so hot. you cannot have both free verse and rhymes.”
My purple man tries to cry,

Our Purple Men are trying to build HOMES.