Last Poem by Jon Butter

Exeter rain and persimmon tea feed the
Angry demons who steal your wonder.
They laugh because you care too much
About petty slights and sucker punches.
They know your history of being last picked.
When you’re not looking they take your girl
Around the corner and ask her things.
You were so sophisticated this morning,
Ironic pinkie in the air like you weren’t faking it;
And now the others are writing checks with your pride.
Don’t stop drinking or their smirks
Might stop meaning something.
Then you would be anonymous.