Love is a dysfunctional clock,
skipping ahead, lagging behind
whenever whimsy strikes him.
He meanders through flower gardens.
A tune catches his fickle ear
as it floats on afternoon breezes.
Dancing and singing, he forgets
his engagement at a
Sweet Sixteen birthday party,
or that he's supposed to
take Prince Charming
to the gas station
to rescue the small-town girl
from behind the counter
as he purchases his Unleaded.
Yes, Love is an irresponsible rogue,
stopping to inhale the perfume of
the beauty at the fountain in
the knockout dress while
Plain Jane stares out the window
of her brown brick appartment
wishing she could be in love,
know what it feels like
to be tucked in at night
and awaken to flowers in a vase
on her breakfast counter
to savor with Corn Chex and coffee.
She was supposed to have met Love,
but the magic moment still evades her,
slips through her nine-to-five
like the proverbial grain of sand.
Love keeps its own schedule,
bursting in un-announced
and taking hearts hostage,
come what may.
Love, visit our houses