Busch Gardens
Sometimes I think this undying love thing
is a mistake.
In between gushes I hate you and dream
of unsending
all those letters that you have jammed
under
the floormat of your car.
I want the pride enough to be aloof
or feign it, like the white tiger we saw
behind the glass, too regal
to flick the creamy end of her tail our
way.
You loved her, whether her strangeness
or her distance,
I could not decipher
but I noted the videotape you lavished
on that disdainful golden stare.
I’ve tried the trick of turning my torch
down
to a slightly cooler flame;
it burns still, way past warm.