With the pertinacity
of an English archbishop,
bulldozing his way into
God’s parlor,
she hammered the fact
of regret, etcetera
(hurt feelings and remorse)
into my blunt noddle;
honey we’re done, you know.
Didn’t she love me anymore?
Taking off in the rain
with the steely unconcern
of a taxi driver, she left me
standing on the pavement,
my burnt heart heavily freighted,
the beginnings of a great loss,
so I thought, grounded
in prior extravagance;
I would have died for love of her
so I said one time or another
or forever mourned her going,
but was any of that
any more real,
any less facile,
than her parting speech
dismissing me,
her disappearing shape,
high heels clicking,
her stylish behind going
off in the distance?
So I’ll find
another one twice as good
here or someplace else
and get rid of her
when the moon is full
and the gin mills are jumping.
At the end of the day
it’s all the same and
the necessary will come
when you need it
and go when you don’t.
Pretty and satisfying you were
and with you I spent some time
and I’m happy about it,
happy it happened.
I miss you but I don’t care;
in the Janus temple of despair
close the gates of grief;
I’m done mourning your loss.
