Too many ILYs in one bad poem

I love you
says my spirit but I hesitate to say,
so soon after an altercation,
where it could be: released:
one, grease for the pan, ingredient for smoothing over
or two, blackmail for peace a bribe for renewed affection.

Not that.
Not now anyhow.

I love you.

Like the smell that wafts from freshly baked banana bread (mmmm);

Like my smile on overhearing something funny,
the child chasing his sibling down the carless street, screaming mali ka! mali ka! (the judgments one so young learns to make!)

Or my taxi driver and I grimly amused on hearing the radio announce a rally exactly where we’re going
(but I knew, I was, in reality, going there; just that taxis have been known to refuse on hearing that street name, what more with a rally there).
Or how when we got there, the traffic flowed, all’s well and everybody’s happy: rallyists, driver, moi.

I love you: the child’s singsong voice, when he’s freshly scrubbed and ready for school when the sun rose in the East barely an hour ago (oh what do I know).

But that it is so.