“I don’t like you / but I love you / seems that I’m always / thinking of you”
~ Smokey Robinson
He’s writing a sonnet
for his pizza again
but the box is almost empty
and his plane leaves in an hour.
He lifts the cardboard, tilts it in the air
and listens to the crumbs roll—
what a journey. It must feel like
miles to them;
their imperfect tiny corners
sing out with muted scratching.
They’re hymns, or carols maybe.
Outside the window, Christmas is descending
like a gentle snow. He finishes his cup of soda
and sighs. She’s on the wrong end of the equation.
Everything’s been solved.
The numerals are naked now;
X is just a number
clawing at his soul.