We’ve never met, but when you gaze
at the honking geese in the air,
your dog with its flash of tail
having slipped through your door’s crack
like your husband ten years ago,
do you think of me? Do you imagine
a man with an impeccable tie,
or maybe a man with a red beret
sitting atop a stack of novels
in a Berkeley bookstore?
I see your kind face, your hand
brushing back a strand of hair
as you stand in your doorway.
We share the same veiled moon,
the sleeves of mist, the sad fog horns.
I have been like a road hidden
in snow, waiting for Spring
to uncover me. We don’t know
each other, but I have a feeling
that soon you will show up
with all your warmth.
Bob lives in a state that is drifting towards Asia. Bob is inching towards retirement. It is uncertain who will reach their destination first. Adrift, Bob reads Chinese poetry when he isn’t napping. Bob’s work can be found in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica, Pedestal Magazine and many other publications on the net.
© 2009, Bob Bradshaw