"L" is for the way you looked at me -
brick faced,
brown and red.
You were blushing, giddy.
The table was set and walls decorated for company.
It was your responsibility to carry on the tradition of polio
and you were nervous, clearly;
your reputation stood on it.
The ground was already packed with sand, like 3/4 cups brown sugar.
You were flustered, warm.
The sun beat on your bricks relentlessly and swarmed
above your head like storm clouds.
But you kept face, torn
between cancellation and continuation.
You chose the latter.
And so I sat in your living room with other guests,
those who weren't in the kitchen or at best
the den. The piazza, cleverly furnished with medieval memories,
is where you served us wine, blessed
with the crest of Christ ahead.
I laid back and looked at the stars through your roof.
Yet still, I wish I could speak better of you
love you for more than the two
reason you gave me: quaintness and culture.
Both do make you beautiful, but you didn't court me,
didn't ask me to dance when I bid you
hello and a smile.
You watched me twirl alone.
He treated me better, even in his vastness,
and I came running back to him, past
this place where I first met you - by the sunflowers.
I made the fastest
exit I could on the bus to him, looking out the window only twice,
until I saw Firenze.
You didn't impress me,
Dear,
but I thank you for the two reasons you gave me.
No comments:
Post a Comment