by Todd Boss
Whoever they are, these friends of ours
seem not the least self-conscious
sharing the indiscreet details
of how they met and how they courted
half as long ago as we. They purr
like cats lapping cream from the same
little bowl, their whiskers nixing.
(Is it really so simple for some—
their stories no more complex
than TV listings?)
It comes our turn.
I try: “For us, love was always complex,”
and everything changes, like a badly
timed commercial. My wife agrees,
thank heaven, though she won’t get a hearing.
“Love is complex,” someone repeats,
clearing plates and offering: “More to drink?”
but it’s late, and more so than they think.
—from Yellowrocket: Poems
