The Deadly Sheep

When a relationship ends in these modern times

where is one to find

a sword one can fall upon to lance the boil of one's grief?

Are we supposed to hang ourselves now

from Argyle socks from Scotland

signed by the sheep who grew the wool?

Or would cotton tube socks from K-Mart suffice?

Or would they only brand us as low-lifes

deserving only to live on

with our feelings put on ice?

My lost love would suggest

that finding a field dotted with pliant, day-dreaming sheep

would be an inexpensive way to relieve my shallow grief.

As I ponder these varied scenes

sword, socks or pliant sheep

I realize there's a crease in my silk sheets

only a mild annoyance

but in my case it will have to serve for grief

at least, if my lost love is to be believed,

until I can corner some sloe-eyed sheep loitering in a field

and so assuage my minor grief.

At the least if falling on a sheep does nothing for my grief

it will get me through another slow morning without you

another slow afternoon without you

another slow night without you.

Even the widest crease in the finest silk sheet

could not keep me from such a wonderful feast

not according to my lost love, at least

and where else could I ever hope to find

such a dispassionate expert

on my state of grief?