Cassandra writes far better than
I ever, ever could;
But keeps most of it in her mind
Where it does little good

Abiding with her cigarettes
And straight Crown Royal shots;
Anesthetizes her regrets
Picks off her straggling thoughts

For cynical and sexual
Is how she likes to be:
But yet beneath the skin and ink
Is pure humanity

She lives in an apartment
With a lingering touch of mold;
While I live in my luxury
Amidst suburban gold

She scorns me, but she’d do me
To submit me, to control:
As nightly, she must strangle out
The poet
In her
Soul