Swinging at Snow

Looking for love is

like swinging a

sledgehammer at

falling snow.

Stumble bums and break hearts,

plead at the foot of some

romantic ideal, “The Woman”

with the bright eyes, easy smile

and carefree sexuality. Begging for a

shot at romantic love. 

“I brought my sledgehammer,”

the stumble bums and break hearts shout to

her. “Look, look, look, look, look,” they

say as they dip and bob for her eyes,

praying they fall up them.

Like looking for a cardinal

in a sea of blue jays,

looking for a porpoise

amid dolphins, looking for

hay in a stack of needles.

Love, without scandal,

judge-less, faultless, wherein

the only consequence is

happiness and a desire to mutually

suffer for someone else.

I’m swinging that sledgehammer,

hitting air, walls, beer bottles, sidewalks,

pedestrians, lampposts, cars, elephants

in the room, but missing the falling snow.