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 |  Poetry written in the past years with WDC |
He hasn't talked for months. Just the coffee brews. But his tongue is going all the time. How come "he don't see me no more"? I'm right in front of him, dangling the pages of our love--just my little secret for a composed computer never ceasing, my back low and hidden. He hasn't gotten out his expensive harmonica from the Curio for so long. In fact, nothing from the Curio is becoming touched. Love, displayed, is all. I gave him a diamond ring but he had to make two payments, unselfishly. Shortly, I will buy him the silver moon but it costs me onions. He cut off two fingers last summer, how sad! I know his wings are pumping but is he still happy? I will launder faithfully for him. The general comment is his wardrobe is modest. I wanted King Size for him too many times. The back deck chairs almost blew away in the snow. At least, they toppled upside down and gone public. Me, I feel wrinkle. I'll find him tonight and rejoice for my sanity. |
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