Here is a poem that doesn’t seem quite good enough to send out, but still I think it deserves a home. So I hope you like it.
Cigar shop and I’m thinking
of you when I should be working
on something that might get published.
But your hair is something
of a coolness on my mind.
And I can picture you, I think,
without obsessing over the curve
of your waist, or the shape of your ass.
I am not nervous that you haven’t called
me in three days and my cigar doesn’t taste
very good. I think there is something wrong
with the humidor in this place. More often
than not, the cigars don’t burn right.
Old guys on the couch are talking
each other through the evening news.
But I hope that you will call me again
because the idea of your voice
makes me rise like the smoke rises;
slowly and not too high.
I will rise from this place and return
home where I will drink gin drinks
and I might hear the sound
of your voice on my answering machine
Or maybe I’ll take the dogs for a walk,
watch as the rain slowly turns to snow
and obliterates the roads and the sidewalk
making everything quiet and still.