Centerfold

She is some disgrace,
laying there in my head
across my back,
pressing into me.
I remember every argument.
The one after making love: "f-cking,"
you told me. I lacked the passion
or the talent of a real poet,
how absurd, coming from an ex-lover
who hadn’t even cooled down
after getting up from my bed.
I pick up the wine glasses,
the dirty laundry,
the poetry journal you brought and left,
saying, "I don’t need this anymore."
Tidy the room,
clean her clutter
Turn the page