Love rides in on Willy Wonka’s gondola,
Tipping her top hat, tapping her tipsy shoes.
Cupid’s arrow will surely sink like so many wishes pressed in coins.
Despair, why did you hail a cab?
Your Spanx glitter bittersweet, orbiting rush hour
On a crash course for the frozen atmosphere of Paris.
Life clocks in the 6 am shift
Dons her apron for another doldrum day
Brushes from the counters the pink dust that was my dreams of us tangled like trees climbing toward heaven;
For always she was allergic to such filth.
Note: This poem is based on a writing exercise found in the inspirational text Imaginative Writing by Jane Burroway. The singer above is Stromae, a singular French artist.