"SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY IN PUBLIC PLACES"
(after a title by John Engman)
I started to write a love poem or
some bullshit variant of a love poem but then
the dog got sick and died the same day
and he took my memory with him, what-
ever might have been left after a minor
stroke and the remnants of grinding gears
and I forgot all about love poems because
I loved someone who would have seen them
as rhetorical fiddle, words he didn't need to know
when all he needed to know was my hand
stroking his head, embracing his strong neck,
his knowledge that I would not leave him
until he had to leave me first.
KTW/8-5-09
(for Cid, Feb. 2000-August 4, 2009)
--
Ken Wolman
http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/
http://open.salon.com/blog/kenneth_wolman/
http://wearethecure.org/friends/cids-memory-p-394.html
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"All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."--Francine du Plessix Gray
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