Funny Thing, Love

by Frankie Collins

Had that burnt-toast taste

of love-gone-wrong glued

to my tongue for too many nights,

and I didn’t think that I would

ever call anyone “baby” again.

 

Who’d a thought all it’d take

would be three days of Baton Rouge

and a little push from two bottles

of red to jumpstart Eros’ motorbike

and roar him up the drive.

 

Now, I daydream about us setting sail

to Colombia, where we can inch

along dying rivers, drink our coffee

black, forget about wasted nights.

 

Yesterday, I found myself

scratching his name in the margins

of my Marquez. Now, he’s stuck.

The spindly legs of his letters caught

between nostalgia and the camellias.