So many things I saw for the first time

You pointed at the unseen colors of trees

That curve between your shoulder and your breast

Bodies that folded, like soft grass hills in Iowa

Impressed near the railroad and sheep that blurred in the heat

The wet escarpment in the shade too steep to climb down

That I should have explored, understood, and acquired

So I would have it now, in the future, and tell you of it

And you would embed me perfectly because of one odd event.

 

Your heart by itself for so long thrived without me

I am mourning that like when the lifting fog reveals the same pier and

The brightened field where the softball players try to put one over the fence

Their baseless dreams known by all, but not defined or etched in anything

 

I took a gold spoon from the house of a friend and sold it the next day

Where they had useless tools and buzzing radios

Pawned to pay people, parlaying the rent and cigarettes

 

The spoon was etched with a monogram that was too ornate to read

I imagined it was the initials of a woman who had the resource and desire

To imprint herself on this utensil, making it hers, whether she ever used it or not.

 

©2017   Donald W. Hayward