From the top of the stairs
you will smirk with him
at how deserving I am
to tumble down head over heels
instead of on my knees for him.
Stepping over me out the door
you will chuckle with him
at the irony of my own blood in my mouth
instead of what he would have given me
if I’d gone down on my knees for him.
Rolling off him after your turn’s done
you’ll laugh out loud with him
at my stupidity lying for hours where I fell
when I should have known my proper place
pushed down on my knees to him.
You think you have not been there already.
That’s why you get it. The punchline.
The twist of what you think to be humor.
The way he unzips his wit, just for you.
You may be right. You’ve not been there
on your knees where he pictures you,
or you’d know it to be no joke,
no comedy, no metaphor, no nothing,
nothing short of crude. Cruel crude.
After you get back up, I won’t need
to show you the scars on my hip and knees
for you to know why I don’t smile, won’t wink.