It was a
nasty little
complaint
of a poem
that I threw
out
yesterday. Something
about ‘why don’t
you love me
the way I
do you?’ and
unwashed naked
bodies
Ashamed to have
whined, I tore
it up to bits,
like the
bits and pieces
of our
love scattered across
life’s floor
Now, contemplating
it within
the context of
some
larger meaning,
I wish I smoked.
This would be
a poignant
moment to light
up
(As if
an instant flame
would spark
something
in you, or you’d
at least take
burning notice) All
smokey clouds
of poetic
nonsense
Perhaps
I should have
saved it.
Retrieved, rearranged,
taped it back
together?