This is not the poem

you want to read
if you're looking for red squirrels,
found wisdom in stainless
pots, held hands
under a hot-air balloon.

The meter is uneven,
like the road to disco bars.
There was a time I called her
iambic because this was
how her small hand slipped
snugly into mine.

I choose my words
with care: she never liked my tone,
her etchings on the piano
grew fangs, we scheduled
the cat for therapy.

This is not the poem
you'll enjoy if you're after
a still life with apples.
Curious bystanders shouldered
each other to catch the last
scenes of that Saturday night.

Everyone was speechless.
Here's the sum of a girl's life:
mini-skirt, ecstasy, blue scooter,
shattered brick wall, blood on asphalt.
All bought with her allowance.