Licorice

If it's been over ten years since you last tried

black licorice, you may now love it.
If you come across a bus stop in mid-December
someone may have written i heart you with
their finger on the window's condensation.

It may be fresh enough you can tell

where she pressed her forefinger down
hardest and whether or not she wore gloves.

It may be that what you think is love

Is no more so than a clump of pink insulation
hanging strangely in a trashed storefront

is a freshly butchered ham.

If you sleep like a manger scene
boxed up in the attic for half a century
you may be in love, have some rare
form of bipolar, or both, plus really thirsty.
There is an explanation for the river's
freezing only at the mouth of its tributary,

translucent necklace of ice.

It may be you are actually as alone as you feel,
that it will only exponentiate.
That this is what scared you so much in the darkness.

Listen to me, saying what I know about it.

Copyright © 2008 Daniel Hales All rights reserved
from Bateau
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission