In the open mic crowd, you spot your ex …
A person with whom you considered having sex
Before you realised he was awful …
And now you’re so grateful
To your younger self for her self-respect!
And as you allow yourself to instrospect,
You realise that, despite the shock
Of seeing this pretentious cock,
It’s actually not an issue
And that poetry is a dish you
Can serve hot
To this sot
Who mansplained that the banks are corrupt
And shushed you when you went to interrupt
His flow of insightless bile,
Preaching ‘nuanced worldliness’ while
Condescending to reference spirituality and fate,
In black scarf and beret on your first date.
You consider, relieved, that the bullet you dodged,
Has left with you a power so firmly lodged
In your psyche that,
When he approaches the mic he
Inspires only pity.
Desperately he tries to be ‘gritty’ and ‘real’
Showing us the ‘real deal’
And the inner workings of his mind,
Which appear to still be blind
To the affected ostentation
Of his pseudo intellectual orientation.
You send up a silent prayer of thanks,
For that one conversation about corruption in banks,
That woke in you that glorious mettle,
The grit to know that you need not settle