Breakup And Harvest Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He'd seen it coming
for so many months.
Things had not been
conducive to
communication.
A normal life -
he had misplaced
the meaning
of it.

Yet, the effect had been
as if a bomb
had dropped into
his lap,
put him to sleep
and, with a Bang
did celebrate
her victory.

He'd been
so angry then
and it was easy picking
for the two of them,
the shyster and
his hurt
accomplice.

He'd given up
on worldly goods,
when, on that day,
the scaffolding
erected by
the many weeks
of counselling
had fallen into
a heap
of rubble.

She was the one
they'd called emotional,
made up of histrionics
and hysterical hormonals,
yet, when at last
he searched the ruins,
painstakingly,
there were no trinkets.
Just the fragrance
of the perfume
Moisson.