It Was Not Even Literature.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

early that night
love has accomplished what
it planned to do

not one is sad, at least
to our comfort, no one
mentions regret, exhausted
and filled

the usual smoke is not here
anymore.
someone hurries to leave,
it is done and there is nothing
more to be talked about

at this point, one wakes up
the following morning
trying to decipher the meaning
of a bed, or the significance
of breakfast.

to some extent there are changes,
say feeling for instance,
the door is not anymore exciting
even if it opens.

the table lamp loses the importance
of light or that book
about love becomes too ordinary
one does not bother to pick it up
again at noon.

what used to be a scent of perfume
becomes foul like a dead fish, with
some wormy gills,

one asks what is it that when you
get what you want and when it is over
you finally arrive at the conclusion
that it was not that lovely after all,
or simply unlikable, and to a certain
extent you detest it, and you blame
yourself for not that really wise
and choosy.

damn, it was just a need, and just
a past time,
it was not even literature.