Poetry

Poetry

At first
         a selfish thing,
a secret indulgence
like a child hiding
under stairs,
gorging on chocolate,
the floor creaking overhead.

After time,
         an honest theft--
stolen voices
made one's own,
words that haunt or anger,
humanity consumed,
fallen, aroused.

Now
         evidence of our fortunate frailty:
wild strawberries
lush in thorny fields;
a ticket home
the chilling wind
blows against the thinnest jacket;
frank words
between the loving
man and wife
         who forgive
                   and cling
                             and fall asleep.