"Love ceases to be a pleasure when it ceases to be a secret"
- Apra Behn
Your hands become puppet shows
for the stranger crowds.
Their eyes looking to Court TV
gavel smack the way the fingers
cross stitch into one.
Watching your cheeks clim Everest.
Calling your proximity to one another
a matter of time.
When hearts go public
they are parade floats
with a weight restriction.
Cruising past the sidewalk cracks
filled with synical TV consumers
comparing you to their magazines
and their parents.
They listen to every leaf russling
outside of your smile.
The life expectancy of embrace
shown off at the nearest park bench
decreases dramatically when pretending
not to care about the surrounding world.
(Then why not the backyard
or the living room?)
There are contacts who you will associate with and tell
too many stories about Thursday
where your voices sword faught
over coffee.
Not enough will be about the way you
sleep with magnet arms.
Not enough dedicated to the quiet dinner
your mouths cherished.
Publicity breeds six o'clock news stories
more than it nurtures the pentahouse
of a new marraige.
If a couple breaks before anyone knows
it was glue sticked together
did it really happen?
Or was it just a theory?
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