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Together on the love-seat after dinner,
enjoying a quiet sit.
I'm reading my old poems while you knit
what might become a sweater.
I'm reading what I wrote three years ago,
each line an invitation
to rethink my life now (and my vocation)
and you would like to know
why I have never written a poem for you.
My poems were thick with girls
before I met you, but there were strict rules:
wait for the other shoe
to drop before you set your love to paper,
let art redeem your loss
but never jinx your happiness with verse--
love poems court disaster.
Anyway, I rarely write these days,
as if writing were a glitch
I've since debugged. I see you've dropped a stitch,
all your hard work, erased--