My Love

by Alan Pritchard

My love is like a funny smell
that hovers in the air;
like cigarette butts and coffee stains,
and cat wee on the stair.
Like bread crusts and potato peels--
that's how it looks--
that's how my love feels.

It tries, at times, to rhyme--
its meter is all but gone,
along with the red wine and the fire glow
and a log cabin locked in the snow,
and sunsets and
Julio Inri...Enri...Eng--
that man who makes you cry with his voice.

I'm not saying that it's not here--
it is, but in a way that does not appear
like love,
to you.