This is the last
love poem
I will write
for you.
Four A.M.
and I cannot
recall the words
of the poem
I dreamed,
though I
remember the
small printed
ink and
the way I
hurried it down
in a stenographer's
note pad
across the
paint splattered
table from
you, and the
doughnut holes
that you brought
me every
Tuesday in
that ridiculous
car that you
have driven
since high school.
I sit awake
searching for
the words
that came
so easily in
my slumber-
causing you
pause,
to give me
head cocked
smiles of
adoration.
I strain to
remember
the words or
even the
feelings, even
the love. I
am angered
at the loss.
This is the last
love poem
that I will
write you,
though I
promised you
10,000,
it is only
me that cares
and I send
them out
empty,
a death
not fitting
poetry or
love songs
written at
four A.M..
This is the last,
love poem
I will
write.
