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Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9904:05
Janet I. Buck

Since my first marriage
had the flavor of old bubble gum.
Since my second was musical 
chairs of a prison camp. 
The only treeline being that 
of need and deep sea dire
depressing tides where smiles 
broke rules and were not tolerated,
where temples of tempers
stole cushions from hearts
and sex went solo, sadly enough.

I had a number of serious
sentence fragments
when it came to willing.
Of course, when love drifts by,
you jump on without much choice,
like a moving sidewalk
that jets toward joy 
you just can't stop.
Dread's designated driver
gets drunk and you don't mind much.
Old brown boxes of sour fairy tales
are overdue library books
in the back seat of an old sedan,
so you return them shyly
and proceed as hummingbirds
that respect the flutter
of passion's heated wings.

Love's hieroglyphics
are kin to honeydew:
you just sense when 
the season is right and slit it 
when the moment strikes.
And we did.
Touchdowns came so naturally.
Umbrellas popping to meet clean rain.