you were never worth sending flowers, dear,
never worth the romantic gesture, not
worth the unplanned gift or the surprise trip
to island paradises. your beauty
never warranted monuments nor quartz
nor marble plinths on which to stand idols
to your virtue, or even lack thereof.
did it matter that I loved you with all
my heart and soul, worshipped you in volumes
of poetry? did it matter when I
found troy my waterloo, you deserted us
even before the battle was joined? no,
it matters nothing that love yet survives—
besides, the grapes on your table are sour!
David M Pitchford
9 Oct 2011