Broken
Not hearts, not yet –
that’d be a crime,
I’m told – no, consider
the washing line
in the garden, planted
plumb, now askew
beckoning to you, come,
come –
it looks like rain, sodden
cloth will strain
and science points out
that sorry conclusion.
Why your frown fords
rivers in confusion
a wilful blindness, or, if
you wish,
incalcitrant unbelief that
you dish up
when things fall apart,
strewn in bits
around your feet; it gets
right on my tits.
A sort of a Shinigami
syndrome,
I turn my back on you; it’s
broken,
reaching for my wallet,
pulling out cards –
surely if something’s
serviced, it continues,
but without effort it’s
next to no use.
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