The Same Damn Thing

It was easy to admire such a pleasant mirage, Her tasteful arrangement of complimentary tones, With forms chasing functions on comfortable fabric, To be smoothed with businesslike fingers In total awareness of having my full attention. And when we rehearsed stage kisses In that discrete corner of the ensemble room, The performance was convincing, if insincere. And though we did refresh ourselves with many an encore, Her heart remained nestled safely behind the fourth wall, From the self-conscious shelter of which She bartered for a better way of life. I could feel the cost of my investment being marked up. It’s what they call a value added tax, A slick embezzlement passed on to the consumer To cover the cost of doing business. In the end, she proved to be less reliable than death and taxes. She resented the implication when I called it a vig, But in the final act, what she required of me Wasn’t nothing but the same damn thing.