Te Amo Taco Bell

When you say you love me,

do you mean it the way I do

when I say that I love Taco Bell—

embarrassing but true?

Or how I love watching hockey?

The way I pretend to know the players’ names

but really I just want to see some action?

Perhaps our love is a deeper, richer form of love.

Such as, but not limited to

the way you love your older brothers

whom you speak with several times a year on the telephone.

Quite honestly, I’d rather be on par with

your paper on the step,

your paintings in their frames,

or the hot water in your faucet.

At least they get to see you every day.

Not to be a nuisance,

I just want to know where we stand.

Because when I say “I love you,”

I sort of mean it

the way Percy Sledge sang

“When a Man Loves a Woman”

But certainly not the

can’t eat, can’t sleep,

you complete me

type of love.

Which, as everyone knows,

isn’t love at all.

Merely infatuation.

Or in the case of Taco Bell—
an appetite.