On Modern Romance
There are no more flowers given.
No more chocolates fed from
Shaking fingers to mouths.
No more coy smiles.
No more angst.
There are no movies watched.
No popcorn shared with
The occasional,
Exhilarating
Touch.
There are no bronzed Sunday afternoons.
No glances across the long table.
The eggs and bacon sweeter
With her taste still on
His lips.
There are only accidental meetings
At one of the same six bars where
Boys with stripes and pomade
And girls without shame
Accidentally meet.
There is a constellation of flaming lights.
Satellites of men and women
Swirling to the wood plank
And back to the privacy
Of wicked ends.
There are no held hands, risked glances.
No quickening heart at the sight
Of the one that he admires
But feels he does not
Deserve.
Gone are the moments of quiet and still.
Replaced instead by the myriad of
Sounds, rounds and rounds
Of lubrication thieving
The anticipation.
Memorialized in old movies and reruns,
Moments borrowed from another time.
He toasts as the chairs go up.
Those moments are only
Punch lines now.
