after twenty years of not a word
but was passing
was just passing
and as passing stopped
bringing with her the rusty key
to that locked and dusty room
called memory.
filling our heads
with the contents of that room
we then took a walk
in the spring sun
I led her to the April street
lined with magnolias
where for just one week
romance blossoms
alas too late
the blowsy meaty petals blown
smearing the pavement
with disappointment
'we are too late' I said
turning back
'we should have come here earlier'
and she asked when?
'Oh twenty years ago'.
She came to visit
after all thse years of not a word
but was passing
was just passing
and as passing stopped
for long enough
to bear witness
to my seasonal disappointment.
