After Rumi

The poets riff on love and loss before
They go, one at a time, through the same gate.

I met my wife, said the department chair,
Not on a blind but a very tame date.

The diva fired her publicist, masseuse,
And manager solely to inflame hate.

They shared a taste for the exotic—
Handcuffs, perfumes, oils. They always came late.

The engineer plotted to sabotage
The virtual soldier with the lame gait.

Check, said the grandmaster of Central Park,
Which prompted the panhandler to exclaim, Mate! 

To swoon over a Chardonnay, the sea,
The crescent moon: poets share the same trait.

His secrets were not safe with her: the rabbit
His friend cornered and kicked to death. Shame. Hate.

Who would answer the call to rescue them?
A sharpshooter who could no longer aim straight.

The prince’s consort is in the news again.
What do they call her penchant for fame? Bait.

He did not have to ask her why or when
Their marriage ended. She would say, Blame Kate.

Never fear, Christopher. No one will bar
Your entry into Hell, through this same gate.

Bio: Christopher Merrill