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?

by Helen Reed Lehman

The corsage on her shoulder is brown;
Bruised gardenias — she likes them that way
They stayed pressed in her memory book,
And go back on her shoulder each year,
And the annual trudge round the floor
Has worn holes in the shoes of her soul.

The musicians retired last June,
And the player piano won’t play.
She remembers the tune so she sings,
Leaning close to his ear, “I will die
In the jail of your chilly neglect.”
— A song she knows better than, “Star Dust.”

But she’s sure that it’s better to stay
In this shabby old Roseland of loss. The trick
Is to dance just as near as she can
To the door without blundering through.