The poets get drunk on that nectar
they call love or romance. They stumble
and stagger their crankled course
from one stanza to another, clumsy,
careless, seeking one more pint of that
draught so they may raise their inky
voices in inebrious disharmony.
For them it is one repetitious caroling,
a single note sung out over and over,
dull as plainsong and half as meaningful.

In the morning they awaken to find
that of the two on the bed, there is only
one pillow whose case is rumpled,
lain on by a head filled with sotted
fantasies. The reality strikes them
hard, like Haphæstus' hammer
on untempered iron, making a dull
metallic thud, and not the bell tones
of finest bronze ringing on a spring
morning filled with twittering birds.

Craig Allen
© March 2010

03/15/2010

Posted on 11/12/2011
Copyright © 2024 Craig Allen