Love is a poem in rough draft,
a half truth in second draft
love is red in tooth and claw
a blind sea creature on an ocean floor
riding the ebb and flow of the nearest
body like an ancient urgent carousel,
an arranged marriage
of need and illusion
sent by a delinquent God
in cruel jest like
the miracle of life
He gave you that you
may stand before the broken crowd
and say, “Hi, I’m Joe and I’m an alcoholic,”
or ride into the village
naked on horseback with lantern
shouting, “The English are coming,”
only to hear the voice from the tavern
shouting, “This is England, you idiot.”
Love is a joke in final draft.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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