NaPM April 16th 2019

[Richard]

To the Poet Who I Will Someday Be

We've already spent too much time alone,
pen leading our hand,
lost in another metaphor,
when we should be lying next to her,
whispering words best said
in the middle of the night,
where one's hands lead
to sounds only two bodies can make.

What will we be writing about
forty years from now?
Will love be just another wrinkle
in our over-thought brain,
roses a muscle memory
on anniversaries we try to forget,
blankets meant for cold bodies,
tucked in long ago
by an underpaid nurse?

Will we even write poems in the same way?
Little books hidden in our briefcase,
verbs and nouns intertwined like lovers,
the page their messy bed,
where afternoons pass unnoticed,
satisfaction intimate, yet lonely.