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