The Next Poem

seldom satisfies. Its the poem before that you 
fell for, the one where you repeat the same lines

for weeks, keep going back to its page
for quick nuzzles or maybe the whole shebang

over and over until you arent sure if your hands
hold the book of if the poem is carrying you

to the bedroom, supporting your head as you rest 
cheek against pillow. This is the poem 

you dont care that everyone knows you are seeing. 
The one you proudly bring to social gatherings, 

heck, even to family reunions with your strange 
Aunt Sylvia whos never liked any of your dates 

and it doesnt matter since you and the poem 
will run off together before pie is served. 

This is the poem you think about when the poet 
whos reading clutches note cards, keeps mentioning 

hydrangeas, they way father drank too much, 
something about origami, moths or egrets. 

This is the poem you wait for as bus stops, 
at places you once frequented together hoping 

it will drop by, say your name across a crowded 
restaurant and you will turn, spill your drink 

when you see it again, how you remember why 
you fell for it the moment it begins to speak.

 

© Kelli Russell Agodon