Real Love

Real Love



Another love poem. Always another love poem.


Like you, I grew
up with fairy tales of love,
of fireworks, two
souls reunited one burst
of fulfilled ecstasy, sex
as religion.

That stuff is illusory,
drug-induced, love-fluffed
with dreams and
divorces.

Real love is a torn
and patched smelly old
bed quilt-no longer new
or protected
from menstrual blood or the
au jus of steamy sex-
it always completes
the journey to the laundry
anyway.


And yet always another love poem. Full
of fire and fervor and
loss.