I’m a sitting duck
Quacking on a pond
Minding my own business
Surrounded by blind hunters
Fully locked and loaded
And itching to fire
Zing one flies by
Boom and then another
Rat a tat tat
Goes the machine gun
Then silence except for
Quack
I’m a poet sitting
On a pond minding
My own business writing
Do not blame me
If you don’t understand
Or don’t like or
Prefer someone else’s writing
As someone yesterday so
Eloquently shot at me
I’m here to quack
And paddle about on
The pond called poetry
He meant everything
At least the
Everything I had
When I offered
He stayed awhile
Maybe too long
For sometimes our
Love like milk
Sours and curdles
Becoming anything but
Recognizable to anyone
Sometimes in life
You find someone
Or they you
As time goes
You may lose
Them again as
Easily as found
But one thing
That brings about
Is the chance
Of finding again
If not them
Then the memory
Sometimes we can’t shake
The shambles that we
Left something in it’s
Impossible to clean house
Completely when you know
That there’s a bin
Filled with painful memories
Tucked in some corner
I have to steely
Myself to even approach
Much less open it
What I want to
Avoid is the tsunami
Of emotion I know
Is coming I want
To flee rather than
Confront I want to
Dismiss to hide things
Under the rug of
My life and pretend
That the little lump
At the far corner
Is not in fact
The beating heart of
Someone that I loved
So many years ago
If I don’t want
Then I don’t need
I don’t play games
With words placing importance
If I don’t want
Then I don’t think
If I’m not thinking
Of say maybe you
Then you no longer
Exist in the place
That I kept you
Making room for more
Likely someone that I
Will be thinking about
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 