Two young poems walked down an alley
arguing.
“You already agreed,” said one,
“that Love is what we seek.”
“Yes,” said the other. “But not the only thing.
You know, food, shelter, some other things too.”

The first poem dug his bare hands into empty pockets
And hunched his shoulders into stubborn wind.
A cold mist had begun to drift inside buttons.
“Which one first?”

“Why, the most important, of course!”
The second poem was smug.
“Then love,” said the first,
his attitude improving despite the elements.

“I was thinking shelter,” said the second.
Low, distant thunder rolled through them.
“Shelter it is, then, where we might find love.”