Karla called me at 2 a.m.
Define love, she said without preamble,
Or introduction,
And in her vox humilus morning coffee voice.

Well I'd love to sleep right through the night, I replied,
And waited,
Hopelessly,disappointingly
For the snort.

Karla,
A woman who howls  at knock knock jokes,
Can absorb sarcasm like a coral reef sponge,
Consume it, digest it,
And spit it out like tobacco juice,
Held her breath and counted to ten.

Give me a one sentence definition , she demanded,
Try and convince me, she said.

Well love is when we take responsibility for the
Happiness of another, I said,
And searched my darkened bedside table,
For what I knew was a nearly full
Bottle of beer,
Which I, of course,
Lifted to my lips,
Despite the fly floating on its back.

Karla was silent.
Not unusual.
'Conversation is not a contest' is stenciled
On her Sunday T-shirt and
She never cries.
Out-loud.

So love is pain, she finally replied.

Did she die, I asked her feather soft.

Yes, minutes ago,she replied.

Come by, I said,
We will take a bath,
Drink from the bottle,
And reminisce with the lights off,
For as long as it takes.