(About a 1 minute read)
She was beyond caring why she loved him.
Beyond any caring at all these days
Except when she was caring for him.
She had met him in chat that one morning
When the Winds were light with Spring’s fertile hopes,
And even I was somewhat less than purely skeptical
About the Great Slut-Goddess Love.
He seemed a man of passions to her.
Huge thirsty, lusty, hungry passions:
For his typing was fast and prolific,
His “LOLs” were always the first
To pop up after anyone’s jokes;
His “BRBs” were inevitably shouted out in all caps;
And his exclamation points were as numerous as the shoals of fish
That once had been so abundant on the Grand Banks.
She did not know — how could she have known —
But she was hankering after a false man:
For he was not really the rich, sophisticated
Albanian fashion designer he represented himself to be,
But was instead, an 74 year old quality control engineer
For a failing American manufacturing company
That produced only a decrepit line of men’s genital waxes.
