A meal in a Chinese buffet

It all goes well

until the subject of conversation turns 

to matters of summertime:

and then 

she accuses you of lying,

and the accusation 

is so compete 

and the aggression 

is so neat

that there is nothing you can say

to make it work 

any more.

She is mad as the hurt ever did curt;

as mad as the sneak 

ever did do;

as mad as the battering partner

ever was to you.

So mad there is only breakage to contemplate;

total and unutterable dislocation;

a final goodbye and just 

no sighs at all.

No calling of love nor precious dedication;

just the cold of untruth in the defence of

position.

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