I once saw Cupid out of character,
his eyes alight with fire all his own—
and band-aids stretched across the flaming red
of self-inflicted wounds (some arrowtips
protruded from the quiver ‘neath his chair).
He didn’t seem so grand dressed up in black;
his halo and white tunic hid from sight.
And at the table sharing drinks with him:
a creature to make any goddess blench.
But still he wore the rosy blush of love.
She waited for the check, for him to pay,
before she asked him roughly not to call:
Romance does not appear your strongest trait
she said, before she stood and stalked away.
Forgotten was the cell phone by her plate,
so Cupid took it out into the street
and in his anger shot at it three times.
It landed in a lonely woman’s hand
and started ringing, but it wasn’t him
I watched him raging at the sky,
at the fates, at Venus or at Vulcan,
Zeus’ harpies, and Mercury’s winged feet
before he turned and asked me, softly: Why?
I almost pitied him in some small way.
Apologies were forming at my lips.
Instead, I ran my hand along his bow—
said: we’ve been asking you for centuries.