I very seldom post my poems here, because it's enough that I ask you to read my opinions, without inflicting verse. But every once in a while the impulse overcomes me.
On Seeing Her First Love
She saw him walking down the street, and did not call out.
Yes, he was her first love:
that is supposed to conjure images of calves, of puppies,
as if hurts taken then were nothing worse than skinned knees.
Maybe so, but remember how skinned knees sting.
And the only person she's ever talked to
as much as she spoke to him those two years
is her husband: and when she talks
to her husband, it's mostly about the weather.
Not really, but it might as well be the weather:
their days at work, their schedules,
who will drive the children; a life built of routine.
She stays still that night in bed
because she doesn't want her husband to ask, What's wrong?
Of course, her first love didn't know who she was, in her secret self,
any more than her husband does.
But he knew who she dreamed of being,
and that is how he remembers her.
It is awfully hard when someone else
is the only one who has held on to your dreams.