Do you love her, friend?
With the way you hold her,
and flowers that you send.

Are you going to care for her?
make soup when she’s ill.
Are you sure, sir?

Can you swallow this pill,
as large as a horse or
be still in the sill?

Do you burn to the core,
friend, laying dormant
at night wishing for more?

Is this the wretched torment
wished upon me,
watching our lives ferment?

Poppies floating in hair,
golden flecks of red
It will never be me.


I’ve only thought of things you’ve said.
I digress, it’s she you have undressed.