by Stazja McFadyen

No one is writing love poems anymore
   and if they were I'd rather say I'm sorry
      than call this a love poem.

If he discovered my souvenirs
   and recognized them as token reminders,
         I'd make denials and fabricate excuses.

'd reproach the summer in heated private dialogue,
   compel atonement for sweltering August nights
         that sucked his sweat and stole his rest.

I'd apologize for unceremonious sidewalks
   that did not cushion his passing soles
         in full-dress rose petal carpeting.

But calling this a love poem, no.
   I wouldn't say that because no one
         is writing love poems anymore.