Robert Hartley

Her presence moved over my shoulder. “Is that a poem?”
“Indeed it is,” I answered, seeking and pushing each key carefully.
“We teach business and secretarial; I’ve never seen anybody type a poem.”
Peck…peck…peck.
“My,” she said. “You are going to write me a poem.”
“Indeed I am.” And did too that very day.

End Point

……………To what end
This strange twist?
What do I see in myself in your eyes
But mingled sere and regret;
Yet you follow my feeling till the edge
And then wonder about the source.

……We are cater-cornered,
Apart and together,
The velvet fire from a tear;
This is the counterpoint in love,
This contrast.

And what of the spur of sweet pain that
Bridges the difference
And becomes a salt between us?
It, too, shall soon pass into a vapor,
As though your tears had been cast
…..Upon a desert floor.

Curious,
Like the hand of a little child held out
Your question. And I would say
No.
To be aware is enough.
Only this.

continue STORY

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