The Department of Love | David Shumate
Hundreds of jilted lovers are lined up along its pink facade. In bandages and crutches and slings. Anxious to file a complaint. They scribble their names. List the defects of their most recent lovers. Then spit on the paper to seal the deal. The guards know most of them by name and take bets on when they’ll return. There go a few victims now, limping out the back door along the lilac hedge. They pause between two naked statues. The yellow-haired woman flips her hair as if to flirt. The tall baritone lets out a booming laugh. They chat a while. Then she reaches for his wrist and writes her number on his palm. It all seems so promising. But if we go strictly by percentages, they’ll be back in line on Tuesday.
No comments:
Post a Comment