Are We In Love Yet? 
by Patricia Walsh

 

Shunted upstairs, ahead of the crowd, pervading

acrostic solutions kill the softest neck,

yanked out of this dream world, notwithstanding

no occupation can save this paltry beast.

 

Reversing fortunes over a coldened coffee,

taking time to imbibe a wholesome diktat

more or less same to do with perfection

photographed at the right moment, to lunch.

 

Remaining on file, punishment still increased

the correct dose of photography simmers.

Stealing from another parent, excoriated still

not forgetting the lecture harmoniously good.

 

Not open during the show, standard procedure,

the loss of a blue glass sentimentalises the lightbulb

not worth repairing, a diamond set alight

strategic silver scares off the remaining obvious.

 

Being rich is key, the shabby clothing persists

washed on cue, invited to inclusive shorts

windows of failure or a forgotten land

missing rounds on embarrassing out of joint.

 

These tea lights do little to crush the darkness

paid for recognition, pregnant with spite

constructing apart a singular purpose

a manner taking notes a preferred option.

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