In The Cutlery Drawer

She tells me that she loves my poems

which brings the hated question

“why don’t you write some too?”

her face is calm but I feel the change

“I can’t, I don’t know how”

and so, our dance begins

sometimes a gentle sway

more often, a blazing tango

“I can’t!  I don’t know how!”

 

she leaves me notes to find

on scraps of cereal boxes

under the kettle

“I can’t wait to be home”

in the cutlery drawer

“I miss you”

poetry, the purest kind

diamonds to my glass