I Hate Tom Brady

The summer I hated Tom Brady
was kind of cool for Texas, temperature
wise. Dallas was the whole world
in a fence of wisteria. Except

I hated Tom Brady. I hated him
first because he left his pregnant
girlfriend for that supermodel
Gisele, because her name sounds like

what she looks like. I hated Tom
Brady and the gazelle, hated footballs
for a week, hated his hands,
hated Tom Brady because I didn't

know where he was or who
he was fucking. I hated beer,
couldn't stand the smell of sweat,
vomited one morning at the mention

of preseason. I hated Tom Brady
for the way he made me feel fat
and dumb as a dryer. I hated
Tom Brady because in a dream

one night we were arguing, and
he flipped me off and told me
to "go write a poem," and then,
"better yet, go get laid." And one

day, I'm sorry to say, I hated
Tom Brady so much, I hated that
swell in his exgirfriend's belly,
my hate getting bigger as she

got bigger, Tom Brady sitting in a bar
somewhere, ignoring my calls,
hating myself because I'm writing
this poem, like he told me to.