love poem
sometimes
I like to imagine
that she's
googled me;
she'll read
a few
of my poems
in an online
journal,
remember
the one
I penned for her
decades ago.
she'll rise from her chair,
retrieve an old shoe box
from a closet,
sit down
at the kitchen table
with a cup of coffee,
tenderly lift
and unfold
a yellowed scrap
of notebook paper,
read that love poem
aloud,
smile,
look wistfully
out the window
into
her rose garden
and say,
"I'm glad
I didn't marry
that poor bastard."
sometimes
I like to imagine
that she's
googled me;
she'll read
a few
of my poems
in an online
journal,
remember
the one
I penned for her
decades ago.
she'll rise from her chair,
retrieve an old shoe box
from a closet,
sit down
at the kitchen table
with a cup of coffee,
tenderly lift
and unfold
a yellowed scrap
of notebook paper,
read that love poem
aloud,
smile,
look wistfully
out the window
into
her rose garden
and say,
"I'm glad
I didn't marry
that poor bastard."
The Wild Goose Poetry Review Volume 4, Issue 4 Winter 2009
If you would like to participate in this series, send a photo of yourself composing a poem or writing or a picture of a location where you enjoy writing, along with one of your poems (the type/genre of poem doesn't matter). This series will allow us to see the various locations that inspire us or where we go to write.