©1992 Susan Noyes Anderson, Poetpourri
You love me, or you say so; that’s a crock.
If this is love, then love’s been oversold,
alone together in a bed gone cold
and all we do for heat is talk talk talk,
“communicating” while you watch the clock
with precious little that I haven’t told.
You love me, but my monologue gets old,
and dialogue might crack your psychic block.
I hate to see our passion come to this,
a shot of duty with a twist of chain;
that is not my idea of wedded bliss,
but wedded guilt reduced to wedded strain.
I do not like the brother in your kiss;
Give me the lover hiding in your pain.