Her happiness is fragile, illusory. Made up.
Like frost or thin ice.
(I respond, of course,
to the evolutionary imperative
of a bone held eight feet high.)
Her attitude ironic, salutary.
Like a prize at Smithfield.
(Specialist in alienation,
she throws the bone down by me in the mud.)
Or perhaps romantic: not cruel but unremitting,
relentless. Like life by moonlight.