Love

by Shelton Stogner

So what is love?
I doubt that it is found in the lies that poets spin
Of feelings gentle as the caress of a butterfly's wings,
Or soft as the cooing of a mourning dove,
Or soothing as a summer breeze.

No, love is more often hard.
It is a feeble incontinent old man
Who needs his diapers changed every hour on the hour,
Or the death of a close friend
Taken young by a cancerous rat gnawing in his gut.

Love is a toothless ancient old lady
Who cannot remember your name when you go to see her,
A homeless grandmother
Begging for change on a busy street corner,
An old and faithful pet dying before your eyes.

Love is watching that person who is closer to you
Than you are to yourself
Waste away in a sterile hospital bed;
When all the prayers and protestations are weak and pitiful,
And the light slowly goes out
And there is nothing to be done by man or god.

Love can rip out your heart
And hold it front of your eyes for days on end,
Daring you to stay in the game,
Mocking you with promises of passion and eternity
While counting angels dancing on the head of a pin.

So if you can still say those three little words,
'I love you',
In the face of all that is contrary to the poets lies,
And believe in the immortality of love cast in rotting mortal flesh,
Then you can truly say
'I know what love is'.