Cupid at the Coffee Shop

I run into cupid
at the coffee shop and give him
a piece of my mind.

hey, what are you doing here?
I ask him.
shouldn't you be out and about
shooting your little arrows
into people's hearts
making them miserable with love?

I beg your pardon, he says to me
in a surprisingly adult tone of voice,
despite being a chubby
child in a diaper with little
white wings protruding from
his back.

poison darts are what they
really are, I say to him, 

putting my finger into his
soft Pillsbury dough chest.

oh, bug off, he says.
the arrows don't always work,
you know. some are bent, some
are rusted or dipped in toxic
paint.

it's a factory thing.
the work is farmed out over seas
to undeveloped countries.
they don't have the same standards
as we had in the old days.
and well, sometimes i've had
a long day and my aim is a little
off.

whatever, I tell him.
stop shooting those arrows.
do you have any idea the pain and
suffering you cause? how many self
help books I had to buy last
year? the therapy, the hypnosis
and psychic healing I had to
go through because of that last
arrow you shot at me and you
know who? you turned my life into
a freaking nightmare.

you're a menace to society
and mental health.
you call that love what you gave me?
for crying out loud. you should be
ashamed of yourself. and what's
with the diaper. get a pair of
big boy pants, for god's sake.

well. I was just trying to make
you happy, and others too.

Well guess what, it's not working.
I wrestle his
quiver away from him and throw
the arrows to the ground, stomping
them into little pieces.

oh, great. that's just great.
cupid says, flapping his wings.
you just blew my whole afternoon
schedule.
you know I used to think that love
made the world go around, but
now i'm not so sure. you'll be
hearing from my lawyers.

I reach over to grab him
by his curly head of hair 

and give him a good smack, 

but he's too quick with those
wings and flutters off out
the door with a grande
vanilla no fat soy latte
in his tiny fist.