the studio and what i thought there

if the winter comes,

i have my own winter coat.

no oversized men's concoction but--

tapered in at the waist,

with sleeves that bell out

like my princess imaginings of childhood,

of late.

gloves that clasp my coffee cup,

except instead it's earl grey.

how refined we are.

taping pieces of paper to the wall

i remember the little girl who did just this.

painted an enormous tree

to talk to if she got too lonely.

longing to be a yearned-for beauty.

painting,

irish boy alone.

cool crowd centrepiece

(i swear we're still in high school)

unnaturally studious.

laying his words out carefully.

i see him sometimes, often,

another sunday wanderer in the studio.

head a wild array

and the manner of speaking to me,

quietly respectful, inquiring smile

making me duck my head.

responding tentatively.

it pleases me.

i think i always wanted to be treated

like some kind of romantic heroine

so we could love from afar

and never have to touch.

i think i ask for too much.

 

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

I hope you know by now that I like your poetry. I think this one will have more impact if you ditch the last line.