Boiled Over

The tea left too long in the pot grew bitter like the memory of the time you left stating you were not prepared to fight for something you no longer believed in, and that something was me.

I did the limbo while you did the cha-cha- cha, it was only after the stick fell that I realized we had both been listening to a different singer, and then I no longer put an ear out for our song.

A man on the street asked if I had ever fallen in or out of love and I answered that I was incapable of writing either kind of novel - that I was a poet and had only ever been its servant.

On a bus a woman complained about a man all the way to Ithaca, so I said the only proper thing I could, “don’t bother me lady each of us is a heathen hell bent with intentions and adroit fervors about love.”