It's nine twenty on a Thursday
and all I've got is a bowl of
half eaten
and melting icecream
to match my soupy heart.
The soda pop smiles are
all gone
and you're not here to see me
off to sea.
Where's your red handkerchief
to wave bonvoyage;
to wave me away
like a bull
or a gnat.
I miss you.
(The way I'd miss a
recently removed cavity)
I think I'll fly away to
somewhere
where it never snows
just to watch you try to chase away
my sunshine.
You're just a rainy day
during my favourite parade.
I love you to death.
Quite literally.
It's now nine twenty five
on a Thursday night
and I've wasted five minutes
of my withering life
on writing you a poem
you'll simply never read.
