Two years ago, I made a comment about how I wish I could find a man to write poetry about me. Teddy decided it would be hilarious to start leaving terrible poetry all over my apartment, often shoved into my pockets. How or when he hides them is a mystery to me. He must leave work early some days to do it. I unfold the paper and read the hasty scrawl. Roses are red, Violets are blue, Your pants are way too tight. But you already know that, don’t you?
