I'm writing this poem as a formality.
As a formal proclamation of escaping -
                    Secondary.
                                      (or at least the tattered perception thereof)

L O V E is completely secondary to foodwaterair
                                      (says the moaning critic)
L O V E, with outstretched wings and unfurled corner pieces,
is completely secondary -
To all the mundane
                               gasps of air that hold forgotten sighs and -
                               pass through our lungs each morningnightday!
To all the routine
                               water drips that fall like tearstorms as -
                               they pound our roof shinglings in!
To all the (dare I say it?) normal
                               chomps of food which take euphoria to -
                               the cleaners and back!
No, L O V E is worth nothing in comparison
                                      (a bell-shined shoe and a pair of hairy buttons, for all they care!)

Primary, oh Primary,
                                      (sitting pretentiously on our countertops,
                                      baring her legs for all to see)
demands that we call her so because we have -
                                                                             no APPRECIATION
                                                                             no ASPIRATIONS
                                                                             no AFFIRMATIONS
defining her necessity.
                                      (not that she is anything very special, a box of Cheerios at best)
She wants homages in the form of russet colored banners waved -
                  every morning, as we munch those leftover mashed potatoes (microwavable)
And a nickel for every time we intake breath! (a bill that was never passed)
                  No, she wants a stamp on every molecule of water
defining it as HERS and HERS alone (as Primary is doing US a favor by giving US what's HERS)

L O V E sits in the corner,
                                        flicking quiet looks at strangled passerby,
                                        following their Primarily choked eyes,
                                        trudging in and out,
And cuddles up with a few lucky,
Plants a kiss on their forehead,
And is called Secondary.
                                      (where's the justice in all that?)

Now, this is only a formality, mind you,
But I am here to confess,
                                      (declare, shout-to-high-heavens) YES!
I am a handmaiden to Secondary!
                                      (played like a string violin into the hands of a faux-god,
                                      and loving every minute!)
End.