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ODE TO TODAY’S SPAM ARTIST
I thought, at first, that we might have been colleagues,
or simply friends, by the way you penned your missive –
as if you knew me from somewhere, or perhaps,
that we had met somewhere inside a computer,
but I became quickly dismayed by the way you returned
to safe phrases like ‘exciting industry developments’ and
I began thinking that your love might be a rationed kind of love,
one that is not bought in wine or roses, but applied for,
with credentials listed for the position.
While it has been a long time since I looked, I am almost certain
French kissing is not on offer at my local community college
and so your message, bit by bit, teased me not like lovers tease
but, instead, the way that artificial sugar teases at being from the cane.
And so I move to dismiss you, scrolling the blank pages
in search of the inevitable love-bite virus of such professing
and find, instead, the message you have left me, lover.
I wonder why you hid it so, beneath the empty white screen
scrolling endlessly as if to erase what sentiment I had left,
but there it was, the raw misspelling revealing your bleeding heart:
initially, he breatheed the last draft but one before the threshold-competitor.
He stopped at the complexion, huged a lava out of his middle,
and whistled with all his might as though giving a duty.
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