Mockery Is High Art

The sky is stormy black, Even scavenger birds Are too disoriented to attack On a day void of perceptible light. My mind is crashing Like a virus-infected computer Impossible to reboot. I’m not one to argue or dispute What any woman would impute, I take you solemnly at your word, You never loved me. The afternoons of tea, The musicals and matinees, The holding hands During summer parades Was all a charade. And mockery is high art That the naïve never learn to make, But must always pay The highest commission to receive.