Dear John:

Just when I thought I had pockets deep enough
for love, you came along and stole my 3-D glasses,
mocked my wardrobe, and blew holes through my names
for breathing. Aspirations for deeper lungs
you never had. Bad boy, John. Did you think
my time a line of credit you could gobble and chuck?
The only interest I have now is in your departure.
If there were any possibility of making it,
of us barnstorming bliss with eyes and fists blazing
against all oddsmakers and doomsayers, surely
there’s also the chance that Goofy was the bastard child
of Garbo and Mickey. Think about it.
Stranger things have happened, but nothing
as strange as the thought of us together a second longer.
I suppose “best wishes” are in order here.
Well, from my heart I wish you a future
of rotten teeth and loose bowels, of bimbettes
with large boyfriends and larger attitudes,
of old age at mid-age and wrinkles that would
thrill a Sharpei. But most of all
I wish you would read this with an eye towards
collecting your things and finding your way
to the nearest open sewer line.
Sure, we had something, though it was thick
as a stretch of librium and just as fun.
You’re a bore, John, with the attention span
of a helium balloon and the charm of a floodlight.
Farewell my evil über- pooch, my buttercup dipped in vinegar,
my glitzy golden boy with a putty-tough smile
and penny-deep pockets. You’re gone and getting gonner
by the second, my squirrely simpleton, my double
greased lightning bolt, my half-life of an electron.
Blow.