When we fall in love, it feels singular, like we have discovered an unknown island in the vast Pacific Ocean. And it is. Sort of. And then the couple has to traverse the mundane routes of their lives and rekindle the remnants of their paradisal beginnings. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t, well…this poem…
I huddle over the scraps of us
The dim memory of your hand in mine
Or was it mine in yours
Are they dim, really?
They seem to blare like neon cobwebs in
Each dark turn of my days
Oh, for crying out loud
What dumb pairings
Who hasn’t been dumped
Or done the dumping
I forage for new words
To describe my voyage
My trundling through the us of us-ness
It has to be unique
The most one and only event ever
in the epic feature of love.
It has to be.
It is not one more break-up in the scrap heap
Of hot rods and station wagons and that maroon thunderbird
We rented one time