No strong men in shirtsleeves
striding thru
my kitchen: warm & obtuse.
No me curled-like-kitten around
a leeping child & smiling
seductively.
No short skirts, no long
breaths; I will not
glance sidelong after reading a poem
to see
if you understood it.
No cozy patios, front yards
my cats
will never be fat. No one
will put me on a T-shirt;
I may never
learn to put on my own make-up.
Don' wanna sit
quiescent in the car while someonw else
drives. No circles to go
around in. No checkerboard
linoleum. No.
No dishwasher; washing machine
unlikely. No flowers,
good legs, plaintive
poems about marriage. Wind
is what men are, & my poems
the sea. Children like grass
on the hills - they hang
in there. Or like a forest.
They don't come & go.
No rainbows. Only pelicans
flopping clumsy, hoping
for that one
Big Fish. You can bet
I won’t be wistful, let it go by
wondering later what it could have been like.
My memories run together.
And I'm none too sure now
who did what to whom.
What we did wrong.
But I burned the script
where I meet your eyes & smile.