In an identity crisis bar
they perform their sad, complicated dance.
She is mutton masquerading,
hanging out in all the wrong places,
laughing over-heartily with a cigarette rattle
while drinking her spirit away.
He is a paunchy, mid-life Lothario
with one too many mortgages
and an off night on the telly,
a car yard jackal lazy for lust.
They stare meaningfully at the real logs
in the artificial fire,
past the over-effected sounds of the solo
entertainer
placed on a corner stage as thin as his
presence.
No animation evident,
small thoughts veneered by boredom become small
talk.
As closing time approaches,
the couple negotiates a venue
for their sweaty, tired imitation of sex.
After they have no use for each other they part
company,
scared
to admit that they have no use for themselves.
POET'S NOTE: I suppose it is somewhat perverse of me to post a poem like this on the eve of Valentine's Day. But sadly, in the dance of love, sometimes the hearts and flowers wither and die.
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