(Image via Roy Blumenthal)
Poem in February
by Lionel Murcott
When I resolved to stop asking her out
(the last three times I’d phoned she’d not been free)
she didn’t disappear. I wrote about
her quiet face; islands of talk, tiny
landings — a whole sea bed beneath unknown;
her porcelain bowls, so unlike and yet
suffused with her. On the fourteenth I drove
over with that last poem, letter-boxed it.
Today she’s phoned: loves it; has just found it
— the rain; ‘We should get together … but I’m
“Ja,” I say, “that’s awkward.
Still, we’ll bump into each other sometime.”
So — at last a “but . . .”; homely, direct;
which I still wish I didn’t have to accept.