My professor told me
even poems
need a spa day.

Their backs need
massaged, their eyes
peeled, their toenails

painted Purple Palazzo Pants.
Think of RoMayo’s
best buddy, Mercutio,

his poems had a spa day
before the Capulet crash,
before Merc muscled

his way into shenanigans,
into an errant night of bliss,
into the best caution-to-the-wind

scenario Romeo would ever know
and the glance and dance
that saved and destroyed him.