April 10, 2006
Love Bobs
Love bobs and weaves. It dodges, ducks
from view and wears its camouflage.
In summer, love's oasis shucks
illusion off, a heat mirage.
Its presence fills a room like smoke,
the same for shed or house or hangar,
but try to trap love in a poke
and (Boo!) you've got its doppelganger.
Love can't be held, arrested, caught,
subpoenaed for a court appearance,
bartered, traded, sold or bought
or haggled for at year-end clearance.
Your wily E. Coyote schemes
have failed to snare or even find it.
And down the Acme anvil screams
with (Help!) a boulder right behind it.
For love, it's game and set and match,
Olympic gold, the Stanley Cup,
the ring of brass. You've got no patch
on love. But you're the runner-up.
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