Another poem from quiet a while ago, I remember I was playing the part of the Paper boy in A Streetcar Named Desire when I wrote this, I think I was backstage when I wrote it, too.
I always thought of
The being of love
As some kind of peculiar trinket:
An heirloom ring, a collection of fortune cookie fortunes,
a necklace or a precious gem, or a fine watch,
a vinyl said to be fantastic.
Or perhaps an amateur oil painting
with an indistinguishable signature in the bottom left.
Maybe, even, it is a rare book;
Leather bound with Gold trim.
However so the matter,
a love interest must adversely be a professional appraiser,
a true dealer and respecter in the ware of one’s heart,
who recognizes the malleability, and imperfections,
of such pawn-able goods as love may be.
Peculiar.
No comments:
Post a Comment