When you touched my hand and called me poet
I crumpled and curled like an ancient scroll
deep within my heart. I didn’t show it
outside. Acted as though your warm words rolled
away without notice, like some marble
cracked and abandoned beneath your dark chair.
I’m sorry. I longed to reply, warble
honest praise honoring your soft face, stare
at your glistening eyes the entire hour.
Instead I joked softly, mocked my praying
hands, cherished your laughter, then I cowered
to the side wall. Sat and gazed, portraying
your half-hidden profile as classic. Emailed
my inner self verse about your ponytail.
Roger Armbrust
October 29, 2010
