The joys of a bad reputation

 
The rumor that my poems are written
by a brigade of Burmese cats typing randomly
on special computers is purr propaganda.

Before we went out, my husband was solemnly
told by a Cambridge therapist I had never
met that I lived with three men.

Every night I had them strip
naked and parade before me.
I would point to one and say, Him . 

He considered this a likely
exaggeration. To his skepticism
I owe my marriage.

I meet people who believe I'm rich.
Apparently my poems have sold to the movies.
My novels are on all the tabloid shows.

 Some believe upon meeting a male professor
I drop to one knee and bite his balls.
Then I summon my cortege of mad amazon

shock troops. We behead
all the statues. We take off our clothes
and dance naked on deans' desks.

No, my cats do not write my novels.
They merely think up the ideas.
I do the actual typing myself.

In a previous existence
I was a perfect elephantine red rose
and gave Cotton Mather allergy attacks.

I plan to auction off rights to
manufacture my autobiography to the next
five interesting strangers I meet. 

Are you interested? I am taking
sealed bribes. No outrageous
proffer will be refused.