After a day of paper cuts and daydreaming
by Christopher Parcels
about being buried by Conversation Hearts
(the one that flattened me was faintly imprinted:
HOW NICE) , I sit now to write on love.
Love is a subject I have always failed,
despite my diligent note-taking;
and I can't blame Rover, because he
died the Saturday before I fell the first time.
Poor Rover. (Run over-
by a veterinary ambulance) .
I have therefore concluded it is not academic;
it's more like an epidemic this time of year,
with everyone sick the same day.
Last year I asked the CDC to intervene intravenously,
but the sickies had already quarntined themselves
on Federal Hill, and then they went to bed early.
No one was sick the next morning, except me,
who wanted their disease:
to be flattened, oh HOW NICE.