by Edward O’Dwyer
Look around. It’s nothing but couples
in love now that you’re alone.
You just want them to stop it,
give over flaunting their perfect happiness —
their embraces, their hand–holding,
all that street–corner tongue–knotting.
That lingering gaze stuff,
not looking where they’re going.
That nauseating just–us–all–alone–in–the–universe
obliviousness of theirs
to cars honking horns and screeching brakes,
to the beep–beep–beep of the green man
signalling them to cross
but, of course, they’re in no hurry,
have all their lifetimes together for that.
Can they not see that you’re hurting?
Can they not see each sweet little nothing whispered
and every trifling touch stolen between them
gives another twist ever so slowly
to the knife losing love has left in your chest?