She will come to the hotel

In a hansom cab

That will be decked in roses

And when they open the door

She will alight with a smile and her purse

Leaving her baggage for the bellmen

On the rain-swept curb

She will wait for me in a room above the fog

The lights of Manhattan whirling through

The haze below as haloes; bright

And indistinct, and beautiful for that.

I will call on the house phone

And whisper sonnets in her ear.

We will talk of the Muse

But only till that hour when words

Cannot suffice to communicate

All needs. Then something far more

Simple and inarticulate must take the

Place of metaphor to write the poems

She will come from a place in the heart

While mine, pitted and sour

With experience, will seek the balm of

Her to make it almost whole.

I will shudder when she touches me

And she will cry, to feel the wounds

That scarred the man

And make her wonder what it is

He could have been.

She will adorn for me gowns so gossamer

I will delight in merely eyeing them

But admiration will not be enough

For either, and without apology

I will press my lips upon the fabric of her soul

Until we find that longed-for

Sweet communion

02/02/2006

Posted on 02/02/2006
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch