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