The Love Song
A song we both liked once grinds-on,
a needle on a disc etching deep grooves
into mutual experiences.
The cat we once shared, died.
Our dog chased the cat in its leg-twitching dreams
until its old heart gave out.
The garden cherry tree toppled in a late storm;
when we cut its broken limbs down
blossoms fell like coral rain.
The garden we both tended to was never the same.
The song we loved is hardly ever sung nowadays
its tune un-played, Insensitive modulations
have twisted it into a jingle only heard in elevators.
I have kept the scratchy vinyl recording,
its lyrics now seem trite and inauthentic,
and we no longer believe
in timeless melodies.
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