pm poetry

Man meets woman —
shakes her cold hand and then
smiles, lopsided
and lovely.

Woman meets man —
shakes his warm hand
and pretends every word
man says is funny.

Woman quickly realizes
she might not be
pretending.

See, man moonlights
in comedy.

Laughter ensues,
and months
of dopamine,
bursting like
clementine slivers
on tongues.

Minds alight with
citrus shine,
man and woman
fall in love.

One night,
woman tells man —
she hates
sleeping alone.

Man replies —
his apartment is
too small.

Woman suggests man
moves in, and
excitedly hands man
a spare key,

which man misplaces
promptly,
so man signs
the lease
and gets
a copy.

Man and woman
live happily
in their corona
of discovery

for weeks
and weeks
and weeks
and weeks —

holidays passing like
meandering
melodies.

But then,
unexpectedly,
woman’s clementine mind
starts to settle —

going flat, like
she’s taken
a huge swig
of water and
diffused the
sweet sparkle.

It’s not man.
It’s everything but
man.

It’s the whole
wide world
that churns
slow and
underwhelming.

Man understands —
man spent
so many years
grappling
with the same
weight of
despondency.

So man tries
his damnedest
to soothe woman’s
feelings,

buys her flowers
from markets,
holds her
in darkness,

all while woman
falls out of love
with living.

Man shares his
clementine crescents
whenever he can
spare them,

offers woman
words of wisdom
as woman
makes her bed
at rock bottom.

Woman hopes man
won’t leave her.

Man hopes woman
won’t leave him.