No One Is In Love.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

for one sure thing
it is very personal

only you understand
and you are there the

stranger arriving at
a strange land and you

mark every important
corner, to create a

frame between this and
that and that and that

purposely in order not
to be lost. This is mine.

i enclose what is mine.
a child is a property.

the parents forget what
is real.There is no chattel.

meanwhile, one thinks he
is better that he feels worse.

a shady tree and a man with a
bike resting there dreaming a

bout a horse in the race, a
hundred bucks, and a date and

a bottle of beer and sausage,
and German measles. What is

this all about? you ask yourself.
did you build a temple here?

mother was once cruel when she
finally got so old she called us

names, and always blames us
that she died because we never

gave us breakfast for the past
ten days which the other neighbor

believes to be the truth. What is
this really all about? Bits and

pieces. Too personal. A light bulb
builds a blob. A runs to B. B is

not a building but a person.
A room upstairs. A door is left

open and they make love without
love. This is the view now.

I am in you but not a part of you.
When we share breakfast we do not

know we do not even mention a letter.
B sleeps with C. C is next to D.

too personal.When you read this
you nod your head. You pray that

you do not continue writing and
giving more hints that all has

meaning and that it will only take
a little time to decipher what ought

not be. Chocolate bars. Prison bars.
Bench and Bar. Barbecued. Roasted

to the blackness of filth. Two people
upstairs. No one is in love.