When Push(kin) Comes to Shove


Do not write that letter,


scatter your lovely thoughts

elsewhere– do not engrave them

upon cream laid paper

to be skimmed by that wastrel poseur,

arrogant beast, sonnet-annihilator–

you may think it’s your best work,

a labour of love,

but he will tear it to bits

as he escorts you

around the vegetable patch,

making you listen to the

most jaded lecture imaginable,

while your skirts trail in the mud,

compounding your misery.

For him, love is just a game of chess

played in a house of ill-repute.

I want to save you from that,

so I’m hiding the ink pot,

and handing you a pistol instead.



When Push(kin) Comes to Shove

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