Come Monday

Sometimes Love likes to sleep late. It's had  
a long night of arranging people into position  
for that morning cup of sentence, or dissolving  
tablets of discontent from multiple divisions.  
 
Sometimes Love likes the feel of 400 thread  
count(ing) shee(p)ts and a feather down mattress,  
warm, deep, huskless cotton stroked by heated lines  
of noon drifting between a window's cracked lips.      
 
Sometimes Love is tired of being taken for granted,  
used in vain through the endless cliches and cheap  
metaphor of bad poetry. When its had enough it  
disguises itself and heads south through Mexico.  
 
Come Monday it skips work like the office alcoholic  
sparing associates the soured-smell and disheveled  
look that disrupts their poetic misery. It lounges  
in a seedy hotel with porn magazines and confections,  
 
waiting to see who feels the absence and remorsefully
calls out for direction.
 
~