You Are A Waste Of Clean, Fresh Air Poem by Mark Heathcote

I have no stock or trade with her.

But all the same demands are made.
You are a waste of clean, fresh air, she says.
'Am I now to be her scullery maid? '
I do not favour a vile love like that.

I sleep like a dog at its master's foot.
I ask for nothing more than love.
'Love doesn't provide or pay the bills? '
She eats and drinks well from my dwindling store.

But only wants more and more.
A useless dog I'm sent out of the house.
And take residence in my backyard.
'Intrusive love'—I have no bones to pick.

But who can give to one's destruction?
Only a fool who can no longer leave.
Stays loyal to an ever-present inferno.
Only if you are a waste of fresh air.

Will you love her and lose all of who you are?
Only if you are a waste of fresh air.
Will you sleep by her feet blissfully wagging?
And woefully swear 'I don't care.'