Love triangles

I know all the angles.
Something always dangles.
In love triangles.
But if there is an absolute,
Maybe it is the odd suit.

Who's to say what is the ideal.
We all just want our meal.
The truth is in the pudding.
Not in the brooding.
Love is a fickle thing.

I strongly have a notion.
Of this particular potion.
It's a license to ill.
Sometimes even to kill.
Love is a fickle thing.

It's a special recipe.
Sometimes it has to be.
To separate the wheat from chaff.
The ardor from the laugh.
You don't need no photograph.

Break-up poem

I threw out the last two things you left at my place.
That Mary J. Blige t-shirt sat on a chair in my room
Gazing reproachfully so I could no longer look at her face.
You and I were never meant to be.

You were there to set me free.
Not to bind me.
Like a placeholder that separates the present from the past.
And is not meant to last.

I threw out that soft silky robe you used to hide your nakedness.
That's one goddamned moment I will miss.
When you sat on my porch smoking and I lay on my couch musing.
When we were together but separate it was bliss.

Yes the robe had to go too.
I threw out every trace of you.
But I don't feel blue.
I feel brand new.