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Poem

There are moments of absolute peace
when I forget where I was when I was
in love with a man, not just any man.
Usually in dreams there is no romance,
but rather another inclination of purpose.
I’m reading poetry that is not confessional,
in the midst of writing my long confession.
Robert Hayden has dropped into my lap,
a book of his poems left behind in my house
by some friend, some poet friend.  She
believed I could be a poet, too.  Such friends
are rare, and rarer the dream of life.

Forgotten, but not gone, all those gone on,
a shelf of poetry, books, her journals, odds
and ends stored in plastic boxes, just in case.
What if there was never such a one again,
such a friend, such a time, such a hope?
There isn’t any reason to believe any more
that I am more than mortal dust, just enough
to keep going to work another day, to read
all the books of poetry a friend left behind
when her health failed and she moved away.
Where are you now my good friend? I reach
for another book of the poetry left on my shelf.

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