Loves Lost


 

Many nights ago,

when the moon lost her innocence

and ran behind a rock in the pond,

I sat on the edge of the grass and listened

to old frogs splash

and giggle over a prudish male.

I scratched my thoughts in sand

like a caveman drawing pictures

of his wife bathing.

But you weren’t there.

I poked sense into dirt

like horses that count for sugar,

and knew why it always rained on a picnic.

Drunks always stare at little children

and scratch their pockets on October’s last try.

Skirts like to fly —

Up here —

No here —

Up

until drunks sit by themselves

and wonder about little boys.

But you sit and watch your lovers

at the park that you slept with.

Park benches are so cold in November.

Some leaves never fall from trees,

and others, like laughter, are covered by snow.

Leaves often float downstream and catch

sunlight on each tip.  But you don’t.

And when they come to sleep in my pond,

when tips dip and fall into water

I see why you lie where you do.

So tonight,

when I walk home —

down by the street light that winks as I go,

I’ll listen to cars roar in garages

like we used to in bed.

And I will look at your bench

and smell your friends.

My laughter will be heard by no one.

I’ll remember you at Christmas time.

3 thoughts on “Loves Lost

    1. Thank you. Of all the genres of writing in which I’ve dipped my toe, my first love will always be poetry. Poetry prohibits verbosity; poetry requires more silence than sound. Poetry is discipline.

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