She’d beg him. Take me home; to which he’d say, You are.
No, no, she’d plead, I’m not! Then, If you don’t, Harry will.

Dorothy, he’d say, I’m Harry. No, no, she’d cry, you’re not!
This drove him nuts. So one night he throws her

clothes in a bag, shouts, OK, go homeand pushes
her out the door. She sat on the steps in the dark

and waited for Harry to come. The funny thing is
he came—oh Harry, I knew, knew you’d come—came

and took her home. She positively glowed, so
he figured, whatever works, and once a week

he’d toss her out, then dash around and down
the alley, and, Oh, Harry, she’d say, thank you, thank you.

They make for a custom fit: the anger,
the love, so desperate, so tailored, so hand in glove.