So Much For You
by Stephen Collington
So much for you, love, comes too late,
your Best Before, of distant date,
pushed to the back, behind the pickle
that broods alone, cold jar a-trickle
with weeping trails of condensate
as if dumb tears could compensate
for so much sweetness soured, such great
passions puckered and left to prickle
so much.
For you
love’s come to smell of stale self-hate,
your Odium bicarbonate
past changing, though the heart, still fickle,
still beats, and loyal still, the tickle
that comes too soon . . . still cannot wait.
So much for you.
