Ain’t No Cure For Love.

I’m not sure
what to do exactly
with my time
between making the phone call


waiting for the police to arrive.

A cigarette seems inappopriate,
a change of clothes too cavalier,

I fix my hair,
scrub blood from bathroom tiles,
rearrange pillows on bed,

and wait
wait for the doorbell to ring.

Posture straight,
chest tight.

It sounds.

I invite them in.

He, a dead-ringer for Richard Dreyfuss and

she pretty and serious,

in equal measure:

I say I don’t really know how these things work.

I offer them both a seat, tea, a view

I don’t fucking know–

There are few jokes,

just a lot of eyeballs and nervous hands

‘You do understand the severity of this Alexandra…’

more eyeballs;

and paperwork

and questions

and then it’s done.

I did it.


The opposite of falling in love.


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