for AG
The woman at the bar has warm brown eyes.
I stare at them
with my two ancient blues.
Hers look for someone who can sympathize;
Mine see the
caution and the hidden bruise.
Mine say: “It’s safe;” and that is why she leans
Into me for a hug
that I return—
That lets her shatter into smithereens
With clutching
fingers, sobs, and tears that burn.
And we’ll leave separately and never meet
Again, because
this momentary sharing
Is not about some passion and its heat
But love’s warm reassuring
touch of caring.
And though my
ego wants more and feels miffed,
It’s not about
me—it’s about my gift.
No comments:
Post a Comment