The Poet is not a filthy story. Just filth adjacent.
I was wooed enough to extend an in home dinner invitation. I enjoy cooking and it had been a while since I’d cooked for a date.
I was excited by the possibility.
I prepared salmon croquets, pinto beans with rice and smoked turkey tails, cornbread and my Kool-Aid fruit medley over ice.
In hindsight, I know to never do this again unless I mean business. Apparently, to today’s hungry beasts, salmon croquets and Kool-Aid can be more provocative than a thong and stilettos.
Dinner went well.
The Poet commented on how much he appreciated the home cooked meal. Gave me the whole “These ladies today don’t…yada yada yada.”
Then the mood changed.
Just like that.
If it were a movie, the soundtrack switched to a wah-wah pedal and a delivery guy with a package for ‘Bend Her’.
Boom Chicka wah wah
Seriously? Was this guy this fired up over beans and Kool-aid?
He went from black woman your beauty is divine, to black woman imma tap that from behind.
Wow…my Kool-Aid changes the poetry. I’m glad I used the canned pinto beans.
Honestly, he gave me no time to ponder it, he shifted too fast and too completely. Like he’d been holding himself in and the food forced his last button of restraint to pop.
Maybe he just wasn’t used to hearing no. ‘Poet’ is practically synonymous with ‘salacious’.
Doesn’t matter, in my house, no means know that iron sharpens iron.
It was an awful experience, but I won the fight and the evening ended with a Poet being tossed out.
He made a few weak attempts to win back my favor, but I couldn’t permit someone with that manner of self control in my physical or spiritual home.
As I reflected on the experience, I swirled many thoughts.
Maybe it was too soon for me to try dating seriously. Perhaps the dinner said, “Come hither” but I wasn’t yet ready to hither.
Was I so out of touch that I almost let a shape shifter inside the tunnels? I know better than that. Once you let one of them in, it’s murder getting them out.
What was I running from or to?
I was still grieving and missed my husband terribly, but I was ready to leave the mental tomb. So why was I was still hanging out in the catacombs?
I had done too much, learned too much, witnessed too much to bend on simply finding another man. Not that I’d given up on romance, I just wasn’t driven by the desire for the One true love.
I had One true love, but that one was gone.
So in my case, it’s a Bonus One true love, and I can’t rush a Bonus man.
However that’s only one hand of the truth. The other truth hand, held the bulk of the Mathematical Bridge in my mind.
I just didn’t have a form to mold it into. It was still as a gas slowing phase shifting into a liquid. Just little droplets of condensation in my mind.
But that dude pissed me off, caused me to question myself and my pinto beans.
Time to cool off and slow down, let’s turn this air into water.
I wrote two poems to purge my experience with The Poet.
The first one was called ‘Headless Kings are Headless‘ (NSFW) and the Second was ‘At God’s Behest.’
At God’s Behest became the girder of the Mathematical Bridge. It didn’t happen at once. I wrote it down, thought it was cute and put it on my refrigerator. It was another 6 months before I realized that I had my construct all along. At God’s Behest is an allusionAn allusion is a literary device where a writer or artist m… More to several Biblical stories
