Harry W. Holloway Poet Free verse

Spread

Your love is like cold butter; 
									I am the knife.

It will not spread 

	will not move 

it’s hopelessly stuck.

Obviously, as a knife,
I have no need of butter.
		But look! 		Just over there!
			A hunk of bread!
I’m quite sure that bread
			        would go really, really well 
							       with some butter.
		It looks positively lonely, 
		just sitting there 
on the cutting board.
					Can’t you see it?

I’m one for sharing, you see,
	especially when it comes
		to things of which I have no want.

So please. 

For the love of that baguette,
				just go make nice.
								I’ll even help, smooth things over.
									After all, that’s what knives do.
						Besides cut.
(But I’d really rather not introduce you
			to the sharpness and serration.) 

						So: 
						butter, meet bread.
						Bread, meet butter.

And maybe we’ll 
leave the utensils out of it.

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