Okay, Already, Cupid

As duck-faced lonely hearts fly right and left,

I have to take offense at the belief

that my or any love, not whol’ bereft

of even the pretense of a fig leaf

before the void that’s shaped just like my head,

could base the book review on just a page—

no less, osmose its better parts in bed—

but such is the voracious modern age.

I’ll ask if you believe in god and why,

(I’ll use the lower case, but “ask my ‘ex’…”)

and if the thing you’ll say will make me cry,

I’ll genuflect, and then I’ll think of sex.

I have no organ for it, by design;

She cut it off, and now I feel just fine.