We found a lone bench in the park that day,
A cold wind turned the collars of our coats;
You having just returned with words to say,
Confessions I long gathered from your notes.
I did not take your hand for well I knew
Blank icy eyes now gazed upon my form,
You could as well have written we were through
And spared the dissertation in that morgue.
But you, professed pathologist of love
Compelled to deconstruct our sad demise,
With sharpened words and sterile latex gloves
All loving bonds you did anatomize;
And love stone dead, you did resect its’ heart,
Then placed it in a jar upon a cart.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.