By Paul Strohm
Falling in love was our easy. It happened quickly.
It was an unconstrained act, a formal act of being.
Whatever the words were, somehow they worked,
being spoken we existed in an excessive ease.
We sat on bar stools sipping brandy and soda.
A waft of authoritative sanction surrounded us,
we listened in silence to bird songs. We drifted.
Days occupied our transitory existence, contriving
intervals to fill two romantic warehouses of desire.
A resolute volcanic yearning spewed out its froth,
unexpected afflictions followed each emotional step.
Such and such happened, at least it seemed so.
Things, places, other lovers came pretty early,
through negligence a change of fortune arose.
Our titanic ship sunk beneath a waveless boredom,
friends said nothing, less was spoken regularly.
It was this that done us in, or something else totally,
memories of anger placated our broken language.
Intimacy couldn’t cover instinctive meanness,
each hard glance, almost grunting at each other,
indifference wafted us away toward other shores.
Paul M. Strohm is a freelance writer working in the Houston, Texas area. His work has appeared in The Lake, The Berkeley Poets Cooperative, and other literary journals. His last book of poetry entitled Closed on Sunday was published in November 2014 by the Wellhead Press.