Written on the occasion of the marriage of friends

I find poems like this disingenuous.
Oh,
Look,
Life has disappointed me
In some tangible and obvious way.
Let me write a poem about it.

I gently plink, plink, plink
a spoon against
this drink

I picture myself
In a year, at the wedding.
Shifty-eyed and restless, desiring
Minimal contact with the other guests,
Friends I've known for years,
Drinking
Very rapidly.
Perhaps to make an ass of myself,
For whatever pleasures that is worth?
Maybe not.
Perhaps it's no longer my style.
No one will remember it anyway.

Plink, and plink, and plink.
It's over.
It was always over.
It was over when it began.

Don't you fucking tell me

whether or not you are sincere.

I know.

I've seen sincerity,
fully,
before

I know what it looks like
without your input.

I am not under the impression
that it does not co-exist
with cruelty

But I can tell that it's absent from your eyes.

Small Comments

There
are
many
reasons
I don't
write
love
poems.

Right now,
though,
I'd like
a
single
reason
to
write
one.