Bucharest

I’m sitting in a Romanian court with 30 women
I’ve slept with and they’re all yelling at the judge:
I’m innocent. Bitter as persimmon
and as sweet is fate’s cruel kludge,
chimera of comeuppance, punishment,
poor timing, choice of venue, pure bad luck—
what a world, to make judicial sacrament
of one man’s overweening urge to fuck
and found a cult, be bald, and be online,
giving dating advice to Anglo tweens—
Is that proper when you’re thirty-nine
or so? A rented sports car, man of means-
manqué: whatever is upon me proved,
I never did, nor no man ever bruv’d.