I open a can of chicken noodle,
                                    the radio's on,
                        and every song's about love or lust.
I turn on the stove and realize
                                   so much in romance
        goes unsaid,
                              particularly about nutrition.
Oh, clearly, love is not meat nor drink,
                                          nor is it carbohydrate or dairy.

Lovers often have such little appetite
         for anything
                        besides each other.
The burgers barely get eaten,
                     the french fries go ignored.
Look at paintings
           of lovers entwined — see how her ribs show,
      notice the circles under his eyes.
Can't they stop
            for a snack?

What can be done about les amoureux malnourished?
            Perhaps a telethon,
                            hosted by a paternal yet nonthreatening celebrity,
where sweethearts trot out,
            arms tightly round
                  each other,
            oblivious to the band, the ringing telephones,
the tray of ham sandwiches left by the crew.
                        Maybe pamphlets should be printed
advising lovers that during those painful moments apart
                  they should store up sugars,
                              ingest proteins,
                                    take megavitamins,
make up for long days spent in bed that dehydrate and deplete.

I think I understand how the simple beauty
                              of the food pyramid
                        can lose its luster,
how one craving can so easily
                        destroy another.
                                    For example,
I have Saltines out
                  but instead I opt
           for a cookie.