By Terese Coe

He made it all too phony about affection,
made it all too creepy about using women,
made it all too Don Juan about his alleged amours,
all too evident he was twisted and all
too dull when anyone interrupted him by
so little as a word,
he made it all too mercenary,
and sick, finally, lying over and over
and over again about the drink
till his own glib neglected
clues caught up with him
once, twice, seven times,
and faced with that
cracked a joke
or pivoted away.
The pathos was clear
even to us, too gullible,
and to him, whose
insufficiency
could not
be spoken.