A sonnet by Kim Addonizio
…
Guess what. If love is only chemistry
phenylethylamine, the molecule
that dizzies up the brain’s back room, smoky
with hot bebop, it won’t be long until
a single worker’s mopping up the scuffed
and littered floor, whistling tunelessly,
each endorphin cooling like a snuffed
glass candle, the air stale with memory.
So what, you say, outside, a shadow lifts
a trumpet from its case, lifts it like an ingot
and scatters a few virtuosic riffs
toward the lock-down stores. You’ve quit
believing that there’s more, but you’re still stirred
enough to stop, and wait, listening hard.
…
The Rose 