There will come a point, where I have lived here longer than there,
than with you and that large house, and all the heat festering on the outside.
The crows that wake me here every morn, it was
the thick of the treated air, the cold you desired that shook me
the lack of traffic and the utter stillness at your place,
the utter loveliness by which you in mornings did do up your face.
Your gentle kindness, always being a reminder
that something more approaches, it was always coming.
Down the aisle, up the drive - it was always something seen
by you, sometimes I (not always I).
For it was, is, still will remain a sweltering climate,
All brambles, and twigs, and an occasionally unkempt yard.
I wish I had accomplished more, for my mind now dwells
in the roaming litany of your halls, the walls too all an echo
of the many things that contain us.
Imagine me, traveling salesman that I, coming up that same drive,
Looking to sell, another number on a chart, when that door opens
The one seeming up high, with windows, and the many creatures looking down,
One girl, now behind me, who was taking out the trash,
just a solitary wife, looking thin, looking
as if all the world is in front of her.
There is love in that house, and though neither I nor her yet know it,
that door did not open for her, nor me - only best sometimes for the leaving,
I prowling around the basement, her, keeping the same old shop
she ever was and used to be.
I love those days, though I have had to make them up for myself, I love
the many ways the words now flow out and around to greet you.
May they be a cautionary tale, of a lovestruck man -
this salesman wandering by, if only just to occasionally hold her.
No comments:
Post a Comment