"How could we not
have become friends,
or the kind of enemies
who must talk into the night,
just one mistake away from love?"
-Stephen Dunn, 'On the Way to Work'
It's just the turn of phrase
that my solitude enjoys.
It contains the perfect drop of sarcasm,
a dew of gentle depression,
an aroma of hope.
The poet shores up romanticism,
brewed over a careful cup of coffee
and perhaps a smoldering cigarette.
Brushing ashes off my page,
I imagine I know him
as his words seep into my consciousness,
coloring my thoughts with peaceful melancholy.
I pay my night in tithe to
our pitiful pact of hearts.
1 September 2012