If love were simple
PBS would sponsor a hundred shows on the topic
with recipes and transcripts available
for four dollars and ninety five cents
call for a quote on video prices. Martin Yan
would chop affection finely
mixed with smashed ginger and black bean paste
and fry the whole damn thing up
in the wok of commitment.
If love were easy to understand
there would be University Extension courses
and old, blue-haired ladies
would commute in from Belvedere
to make love along with their plaster of paris sculptures
of cats and balls of yarn
tangled
no hope of escape.
If love were devoid of contradiction
newspapers peddled by doctrinaires
would herald headlines of love
in 72-point type
and people on the street
confronted by such radicals
would actually buy their publications
and tell the vendors to keep the change.
If love were easy to contain
it would be on sale at Target
in four ounce, eight ounce,
and sixteen ounce sizes
with a convenient spray attachment
to get to all those hard-to-reach spots
and the option to refill
from the economy bulk concentrate decanter.
If love could be safely ignored
it would have run for public office
and promised everyone the world
only to be exposed as a philanderer in People Magazine
and rehashed in a “where are they now” feature
ten years later.
If love could write bad poetry
I’d be out of a job.
If love were easy to accept
Publishers’ Clearinghouse would deliver it to your door
and all you’d have to do is sign the check.
You may already be a winner.
We obviously like old and silly, or we wouldn’t be hanging out here. Oh, and I would like a refill from the economy bulk concentrate decanter, please.
Every now and then I prefer my affection mashed with wasabi.