My Secret Reader

One day he will discover my poem;
the one about when we were young,
how he kissed my neck, kept close our secrets,
and grew daisies on our windowsill because
I once said I loved them.

He will be ugly now, warts covering
his forehead. Women will have shunned 
him, his money ill-spent. He will sleep 
on park benches, the library his place 
to seek warmth. 

He will wish he never left.

Oh, how hurt lingers--like the last drunk
leaving a late night party.

Pris Campbell

Art: Floral

This poem was inspired by one by Ted Kooser,
our Poet Laureate, 2004. Click HERE to read it.

Return to Poetry Index II
Return to Homepage