Maybe
Poem by Tom Wayman
Maybe hopeless love is the best
of love:pure
as a May sunrise
sweetened by the dawn song
of robins, the hushed air
hanging on every note.
No disagreement
about how thick pork chops should be,
the best route to somebody's uncle's, or
water spots on the hardwood.
The coffee pot
sighs at the thought. I take the grindings,
it says, and churn out richness.
But I'm the opposite of
sustenance: domestic as a towel,
yet accept too much of my offering
and you're irritating and useless
as a customer service representative
—the luscious dream of me
hot to the taste, but far afterwards
your tongue is
bitter, bitter.