Divorce

by Will Bradshaw


In my poem about split infinitives
there is always something in between
what should be and what is
you will never find a come or go
holding hands with to
strolling through the moonlit sands of
my opening stanza

To would be pleased by such a coincidence
has a nocturnal fondness for water fronts
likes to watch the city lights stretch
upside-down on the heads of fishes

But, hard-luck child of the English language
the split infinitive sits two rooms down
from his other half
too frightened to go out alone
too bored by HBO he broods,
waits, wonders

the writer cannot be too careful
about misplacing adverbs