little red in the city

the less love pities the beast,
the more one sorrows.
               – anonymous

heading out to grandma's house
under a poisoned moon
a little red riding hood watches
as the streets fill with vampires
        and werewolves —

loveless, lovelorn — even the air
is cavernous      keen
for a quick caress,
a nip/suck/rip here and there.

much too tender to be tangled up
among the cruising dead,
melancholy trumps fear
          as her fondest notions

disassemble . . .
virulence rules the lovesick . . .
such a grown-up idea.

         now the question is,
does her innocence turn canny
at the breach of sweet decline

or is it a simple grace
              that saves her
— grandma's tinkling laughter
parting the black surround?

well/well my dear,
love is the disease/the answer —
the less love pities the beast . . .