It’s to keep the poems I placed

on the wooden bench beneath the arbor

from scattering across the grass,

just a book someone left on the bus

with no ex libris or number to call


Though the book is old and stained

I think you’ll find the poems

I’ve folded into its middle filled

with more passion and intrigue

than “The life of Otto Von Bismarck”


I thought the roses at the market looked

rather ordinary, overpriced too,

and like the blossoms in your garden

quick to join the spinning of the leaves


I hope you will return before dark

Sad if my words to you might

lose their meaning

in a sudden rain or the morning dew




Previous/Next/Love & Sex/HomeĀ