It must be the rutting season
because I haven’t seen you in ages,
and you have that stretched-thin look you get
when running with a new bitch.
Hours, sometimes days, I waited,
a broken-heart cliché,
phone in hand, heart in my mouth
turning to rocks and ashes.
Then I stopped.
I remembered who I was, like Rudyard Kipling said:
“The best ones don’t wait for anyone.”
I put down the phone, slipped off my shoes,
and went to howl at the moon.