“Is this a poem?”
she asked after handing me a honey dripping piece
of baklava
as I read her swooning lines
of one word couplets,
exclamations of LOVE
and LUST
executed and convicted
in the usual fashion.

The author blinked her baby blues
my way
before entangling our sticky fingers
and whispering, “You know he’s out of my life, right?”

Caught between the devil and the deep
blue sea I replied, “I see”, and returned
to my psychoanalysis on the crayon scrawled musings
and secrets of a loony bin inmate twice removed.

“So – is it poetry?”

Inching closer
on a bench meant for threesomes
of bus patrons on 10th and Central
the nutcase laughed hysterically
as a drunken college student tripped
on the sidewalk and fell
into her boyfriend’s arms.

“If you breathe life into it
– fiction or non –
it’s poetry.”

“Do you know how much I respect your opinion?”
the temptress responded before folding the paper
into a heart – which I did not wish to take.

As good ol’ number 23 pulled up
to the puke-puddled curb
with misfits aboard who gazed out their windows
like zombies searching for just the right brains
I nodded and tucked away the crumpled
blood-pumping verses into my jeans,
kissed her meekly on the cold rosy cheek,
and waved goodbye amongst the living dead
while wondering which questions of
love lost
love gained
in a poetic fashion
would ever come between us . . .