by Alan King
You forgot the lamppost
that lit you like a diva, when
I surprised you with a bouquet
of long-stemmed, white lips.
You don’t recall the restaurant
where both of us laughed while
you fanned your lips bitten
by spicy curry channa.
I’ll never understand what makes
a woman forget those things,
and go out of her way to avoid me
on the streets as if I were
panhandling for her attention;
as if you weren’t the one
who left town for a week,
came back and only called
when you needed help
rearranging furniture.
Yet, when you walked past
the bookstore with a new man,
and saw me inside gawking,
you smiled.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 