Chocolate

You locked the garden gate

On such a sunny day.

You threw away my poetry

Within the shadow of our apple tree.

Your servant told me everything.

You flung aside your china plates

And stormed along the vacant hallways,

Perfumed with pinot gris.

Last week

You swallowed my lower lip

And swore me little more than chocolate,

A major, if occasional, indulgence.

I died and fell

Completely despondent, dazed.

I wrote a world of words

To blaze in orbit round your perfect head.

You read and sighed, "Oh, well."

My inconstant lady,

What brought your heart to rage so violently?

- 1/2/26