A Poem on Poems on Love


As I sat she entered, and then walked up to me,
"You, what are you doing? What is that you're writing?"
"A poem," I said. "A poem on love."
"Well, tell me. What is love?"
Hastily I cleared my throat, stirred my heart, read what I wrote:
"Love is sitting on a hill, and looking up beyond the sky,
At night when you are closer far to all the myriad of star."
I steadied to continue but the lady cut me off.
"That's not love," she quickly said and
Called-demanding further prose:
"Read! Read! What is love? I will follow you along."
"Love is like a painted house, like children playing with a mouse."
"What?" She asked abruptly, "What does any of that mean?"
"Love is like an ocean isle, more like carpet than like tile."
"Hush," she whispered softly,
Took my page and tore it cleanly.
She then took on a sweet, sweet tone,
A tone as if she loved me,
"If you don't know what love is, you had better not write poems."

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