| Note to Self
I met him in the breathless month of June. He warmed my heart and took away my stress. We kissed under a silvered summer moon - he had no flaws on which I could obsess. Yet worry worked its way in like a snake. I tried to tell myself the point was moot - his loving was the frosting on my cake Yes, you could say he really was a beaut. Old movies flickered – Gable and Garbo. They moved in chiaroscuro shadow play – a queen or showgirl, cowboy or hobo. We gazed in awe, enraptured through the day. I played the Garbo role in full rhinestone and he was Gable, ripe with cheap cologne. P. Jessen |
If you have any comments on this poem, P. Jessen would be
pleased to hear them.
