Reflections On A Romantic Potboiler Poem by Joydeep Sircar

'I'm sorry, ' said the young and beautiful blonde.
'There's nothing more for me to live for now'.
The convenient pistol, poison, or large pond.

The banality embarrasses acutely. How,
we ruminate, could he have been fool enough?
Reassurance comes. Hell, it was just some hack
pounding out his so-much-per-column stuff.

But a vague disquiet survives the malediction.
Do not probe further. It is only the latent pain
of regret that, unlike the fool of fiction,
your heart is fettered by your tyrant brain.