Email Poem

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Poem

Today, even the hills seem blue.
Unhappiness is just happiness ~
being torn to shreds by you.
Bartleby:  "I would prefer not to."
Lawyer:  "But Bartleby, you've got to.
Pull yourself together, somehow,
and make a copy for me. Now.
It's your sad lot to."
Bartleby:  "I would prefer not to."

Someone stomped on my heart with their feet.
There's the red blotch ~ on their soiled bed sheet.
Doesn't look like a heart anymore ~
more like an open, festering sore.
And ~ I'm not waiting for a repeat.
You know what I wish for the most? 
That we could drive once more up the California coast,
listening to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, and John Prine,
with me holding your hand, and you holding mine,
and not stopping ~ till we had safely crossed the fault line.

Here we are, finally at our loose ends,
with no more possibility for amends.
Our love's edges just got too frayed
for anyone to be able to come to our aide ~
no elf or fairy ~ who sews up, patches, or mends.
From Barcelona, she shipped me boots of Spanish leather,
with a note that said, "So you might get to understand Bob Dylan better."
And that's the last word
from her I ever heard,
and sadly, we never listened to Bob Dylan again together.

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