It’s harder now
writing love poems
stuck in traffic,
perhaps because
of the constant
sixty miles a day
commute
over the past
six years.

Sixty miles a night
when courting
was so much easier
when the destination
was sweet uncertain
expectation
instead of
sweet certain
eventuality.

The two hundred
and forty seventh
meat loaf
is still
as good
as the first
but it is harder
to find
new words
of praise.

The synchronicities
and knowing your beloved’s
words
before they are spoken
continue to provide
structure
and support
in this messed up world
but it is less astounding now.