With the belief it’s important to stay
organized when our lives get all hectic.
I’m in bed with the girl poking fun
at her need to keep lists.
Half naked here in my arms,
she’s poking me because of my words.
The irony that I make such a big deal
about all her notes and goals,
when I’m the one chronicling all the details
from one day to the next and so on.
It’s my personal belief that
this girl keeps lists as memory triggers,
she knows better than being my boss
after all, I’m the poet who
records her every move.
I’m buried with all these things to do,
my finish work, she calls it exactly right.
I’m lying here with a beautiful girl,
she encourages me to try and keep writing.
Disappearing underneath the sheets,
comforter and pillows.
The girl with the flawless memory
keeps a score between us, she wants me
to try and keep up with her.
Who’s to say that keeping lists
is necessarily a better way to stay on task?
She’s reaches her intended target,
I’m erect and paying close attention,
as she starts naming off
all the pretty things between us both.
I promise to be faithful to her lists,
if it means I get this kind of attention
in exact detail, I’ll make her proud
showing all the others how it feels
to have this one highly driven girl
kneeling against my temperamental side
after all, I’m the poet, in charge of words.
It’s early Sunday morning
and I’ve hidden all the paper in the house,
she’s just going need to be verbal
like in the animal prehistoric days
the oral tradition, using her quick mouth
to slowly speak the story to life.
Giving exact detail, highlighting
all the exciting facts until climax.
I swallow hard trying to listen,
while watching each syllable
expressed from her throat, it’s such
a turn on watching her
explain why her lists
are her way
of remembering
what I like.
