There's nothing like a bruised heart to inspire poetry.
Eating My Words
On Sunday night, over dinner with an old friend
the words, “my new man,”
danced
off my lips
with
no foresight or hesitation
like
they belonged
easy
as
you please.
Surprised, I stopped
just to taste them, and, O!
they
were rich, full, mellow
ever
so slightly sweet
like
coconut
or
a mouth full of autumn.
I’m sorry, dear, but don’t be surprised
if your Tuesday title doesn’t taste quite right
friend
is delicious, but
the
artificial sweetness of “just a friend”
after
I have tasted something so real
burns
the back of my throat.
Cloying
chemical saccharine
synthetic,
manufactured aftertaste;
like
trying too hard,
like
letting me down easy,
like
eating my own foolishness.
No comments:
Post a Comment