As you lay down
in my poem
I am compassed
about with so many
ghosts of other lovers
I cannot sleep,
so I get some
Cool Whip and strawberries
fresh from the Farmer's Market
and make you the sole
object of my experiment
in love and food therapy.
You say, Where's the love
in all this?
I say, Have you seen
the price of strawberries?
Our questionings turn into
a tennis match--Love you;
Love me. Match. Game.
As you rise up
from my poem
we are both winners.
The smell of strawberry
flares our nostrils.
Cool Whip covers
both of us. So cliché, you say,
but at least you are in my life,
at least you are in my poem,
and at least you are my only love.
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