I'm packing up to leave. And as usual, over time you tend to collect a lot of junk, especially in terms of paper. I was clearing all the slips, bills and reciepts out, when I came across this small slip of paper where I had jotted down this poem from one of the subway "Poetry in Motion" entries.
I wish this po’m to oblige her, kindly,
but I shouldn’t sign my name to these words–
I should just keep admiring her qui’tly
’cause I can’t write like her beauty deserves:
my pen’s too slight to boldly show her face,
on a page too dim and pale to be kind
reflecting her eyes, shined ’neath arched brows’ lace,
easily recalled as paired polished rhyme–
by that light a bird takes flight from finger,
whistles o’er her river and limber streams,
palms aflutter o’er standing waves in her
that softly through their curvy banks careen
but I’ll bid the bird hide and stop whistling
so she won’t catch it, annoyed at list’ning.