Helen of Winchester, or Joan of Franklin.
Can I please her with just crude words?
(she forgives a wry smile
she pities me as I stutter through this).
She has too much of my poetry
she has to be sick of it by now
but she knows this secret place is where I thrive
hidden in the battered paper of fearless love letters and
sleeping between the lines of youth's miscalculated poetry
that place that we have always shared
(she won't approve of such sentimental lines).
Damn this, I had all week to work on it
and damn the faint bitterness of all farewells
but bless, dammit bless, this life of hers.
Bless her house, bless her feet
bless the bed she crawls into and the blinds she closes shut
bless the door on her way out
bless her every which way she goes.
Forget the wind, the roads, and all the rivers leading home
she'll carry herself there when she damn well feels like it