Jack Harvey writes

Careless Love

What is love in the evening?

A quick pick-up in a bar;

his nozzle leaking

a drop or two

through his shabby pants

shows intent;

her bright not at all hair,

adorned with a rose,

does not please, her teeth

sticky with lipstick and booze.

But so what?

It's late.

Time to get together

in some room and

make the best of it.

The grasping hands,

the pressed lips,

the gasp in

the moment of connection;

the telegraph line

that binds us

for the moment gracefully revived.

Fill us up to the brim,

Cupid,

for love's sake, help us

in the race against time;

keep the illusion

for beauty found

within no beauty at all,

foul found fair,

for love's sake transmuted;

the god's great gift

overcomes despair,

in the instant intimacy of the flesh.

Cupid, give us at least

beauty good enough for now,

for our own midnight,

when the nightingale sings;

beauty gone we know

in the reddening morrow

when the nightingale unfolds his wings

and off he goes to wherever he goes.

In the red morrow off he goes,

leaving us to go our ways alone

with no song, no rose, no love. 

Old Lovers -- Otto Dix