I Saw Him Standing There
I see you there,
painting a literary facade,
thumbing through Cervantes
as though it has usurped your very being.
Your unenthused stance reveals your ruse
as do your constant glances in my direction.
In my quixotic state, I wonder if you
fancy me your Dulcinea
or if you merely question why
I scribble so wildly upon the page.
You, Sir, are my current inspiration
and I shall not tire until our story ends.
Peripherally I register how slowly you move
toward the books behind my chair.
I want to turn to you and recommend Solzhenitsyn,
third shelf down on the right;
but hesitate to be so revelatory
about my interests.
Now I feel your eyes discreetly moving
up and down my page,
ingesting my words.
Realization hits.
Our eyes meet.
Yours ablaze with the knowledge
of immortalization in my poetry,
mine wickedly feigning innocence.
You turn on your heels and stalk off,
undoubtedly in search of a windmill to best
for your lady fair.
Copyright © Dawn Mungovan | Year Posted 2005
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