Cleaning his desk in New York, he finds
the old manila envelope,
corners flaking, broken clasp
and psychedelic lettering addressed to himself..
Inside, his collected early works
he sits and reads
all the pages pounded off
his Smith-Corona
in the days of correction tape,
before the perfect font.

The paeans to old love come out
florid verses distended with words
like forever, pledge,
eternal, heart, undying.
He winces, then pictures her
dark waterfall of pressed-straight hair,
brown eyes the genesis of laughter,
legs that would wrap him in glory.

He reads one poem aloud, like an incantation,
like a magus who summons her
through temporal geography,
appearing as though she never turned
her back on him that autumn day,
as dry leaves closing behind her
cackled bitter good-byes.

Somewhere in Minnesota,
in a house just doused with late spring snow,
she startles, spills tea on her hand as it
flies from a jostled mug.
She shudders, as though a dream suppressed
has tried to flash up through memory.
She mops the puddle with a towel,
flicks brown hair behind her ear,
and returns to read a poem just written
to her husband,
who sits across the round oak table
drinking eternal love.











[First published in Waterways, July 2000.]

10/07/2001

Posted on 10/07/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt