|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|For Those Who Forsake Love
This morning there are streetfuls of people who want someone else.
At home, there are Ghandis waiting.
There is a Mrs. You, standing at the kitchen window,
wondering if the good morning she received
over toast and coffee was the truth
or if her husband loves the mailman more.
At home, there are babies who
will never get their PhDs. There are forgotten
televisions and yogurt and books about
how to add ten years to your life.
In bedrooms everywhere
there are deaths that the American Medical Association
would never be able to explain.
There is an entire Earth outside these walls
that will never be happy. You, perhaps,
know what I am talking about.
You, with the collar up. Hoping no one sees.
This morning, she found your e-mails and Bill of Rights,
stating the new rules of the inside. You’ve forgotten one thing, however.
Love will trust your good morning only until
the night time,
when the sun takes
the NYPD Blue approach –
waiting patiently in the darkness, dusting
the world for fingerprints.
Crying secretly and professionally
over what was broken,
over what was done
About Heather Bell