Pepe LePew's Tristia
You think I don't know you are a cat,
that this passion of mine is somehow misinformed
as if a stripe down the back from a dripping paint can
could obscure the truth of you, and misdirect my ardor.
You think I don't know how I affect you,
how the smell of me makes you weak with disgust
as if I don't see your eyes widen with horror as I come through
the opening of my own arms, kissing the air, pledging my undying love.
But my darling, God made skunks passionate
precisely because we smell so bad.
We can barely stand ourselves
and this is why we fall in love with the wrong cats.
My doctor says this is unhealthy.
I do not care, for this is my equisite tristia
to kiss the air where you once were
to say your name over and over again, insistently.
But here is the truth of it: all my life
I have loved mistakenly
for love is the only mistake a true skunk must keep on making.
© John Straley