When You First Fuck Me, I Think of Billy

Joel and the furniture polish he tried to ride
home. Suicide takes on a different size when

it’s your hero. Get it right. This poem is about
him, not you. The Innocent Man I masturbated

to before life chimed to your tune. If I play it right,
morning is a wound I spend all day healing but that

never excited you. Seen it all your only attitude, no
room for surprise or Billy’s Downeaster brood. You

kept muttering slower is better but you meant control
is my only tool. Jazz impossible for a man who can’t

utter truth. The way some say If only I had a nickel
for every… never thinking about who the nickels

once belonged to, or the ink we agree to smudge
across our thumbs in quest of news, that’s how

you sputtered cum across me, soil swollen in dew.
And despite the way Joel can marsh my desire, hit

the high note & start my fire, he did not hold his
ass to my lips, make my tongue its briar. No. I

didn’t know a stranger piano-famous and death
hued would be the only blue left to fondle of you.