She speaks to me whenever,
Which is her way; I am not allowed
To pry or ask her why she flees
To her private sanctuary, there
To grieve and remember, which,
To her, was always a pre-condition
For communication and concern.

I have not lost one so dear, so any
Opinion raised by me lacks the clarity
Of empathy, or the right to ask beyond the gate.
I may call up to her dreary mansion and hope
A window flies or lights and I am invited in.
But should the rain fall any harder, or the skies
Grow cold and bleak, I shall have no other option
Than to roll my collar up and turn for home.

I lusted for her once, quite openly;
Her slender form has not suffered
Much despite the years and I have wondered
If she might someday find my lips again
Inviting in the midst of the anguished quarrel
She holds with those more obtuse than I.

A funny thing happened on the way to
The boudoir. I found her more in need
Of those tender, slender claims I have
On assuagement of other people’s miseries than my craven
Affections for breasts and curves.
The words I drop in e-mails
Are of the sort that brings her to a spring of tears;
She calls them welcome and whispers back,
You are the only one who understands.

So, unasked if this was my intent, I find myself,
Quite remarkably, a saint in a sainted woman’s eyes.
And I suppose, if I am to drag any reference of kindliness to
My final interview at Heavens’ Gate, I could do worse than show
That I never appeared at her door, not once, without my heart.

03/16/2016

Posted on 03/16/2016
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch