Two Poems By Drew Pisarra

In Truth

It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid 
to tell you what I did. I cannot trust
my words. What a mess I’ve made

of whatever this is, this escapade,
this sweet-turned-sour in-an-hour thing gone bust.
It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid 

although of what… Well, I refuse to say, 
because I know that you will misadjust
my words. What a mess we’ve made

of this affair. What a harlequinade!
It’s all rot and rock and ruin and rust.
It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid 

to hear you mock my words as they’re replayed.
For that you’ll do. You’ll echo in disgust
my words. “What a mess you’ve made,”

you’ll say in faux dismay, in truth, enraged.
How can I blame you? I’ve earned this distrust.
It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid
of this very messy mess I’ve made.

Footwork

Love is a thing that one chooses to do,
an action to counter one’s tendency
to hook up then break up and then make do 
with whatever ensues (like balls turned blue 
or the misstep of codependency).
Love is a thing that one chooses to do;
it’s you choosing Love, not Love choosing you,
a moving towards, not ascendency.
To hook up then break up and then make do 
is directional… and instructional, too.
Why not learn a new choreography?
Love is a thing that one chooses to do;
a pas de deus that requires one to
renounce one’s outdated philosophy:
to hook up then break up and then make do 
is a wearisome pattern in which you
and I stumble inevitably.
Love is a thing that one chooses to do:
Post hook up. Pre break up. With luck, break through.