I gave you my heart.

Held it out to you as a small child might
a gift on which
they had spent many hopeful hours,
immersed and elated-humming
toiling with infinite care
and in full anticipation of giving
the Other pleasure,
infusing offering with radiant love,
oh, perhaps
a little clumsily wrought -
being no expert
but the intention, indisputable -
wrapped in the Loved One's favourite colours,
then tied with a lavish, naive bow,
second hand, of course,
but oh, finally brung -
rumpa pum pum
in smallest hands outstretched
as if they bore frankincense .

First
you let it fall,
then experimentally stabbed it
with the extremity
of one, sharp toenail.
Sneered
when something tinkle-crumpled,
bent and pinched
with disapproving fingers,
the smallest amount
of contaminating thread
of Monet-Coquelicot*, bloodiest-red,
you would have binned it,
only you hate

waste.

Instead you
stowed it in the place
where you store those things
you cannot quite
determine
a use for
and promptly forgot it.


* Coquelicot - French vernacular name for the wild corn poppy.