When the postcard is hung upside down the plane flies away on its back. I know one of those irregular days with the disposition of a bee-stung mule is on its way to visit me. I have found diplomacy goes a long way and when it runs out, humor is the best fallback, nothing mean or sophomoric, but the ability to laugh is a fortune in the face of a bankrupt day. When the sun sets on these spare and harrowing days, I mortgage strength from tomorrow and right the picture then try to fly right.
Plod when you can’t skip.
The Twelfth of April
When I met you,
you were a power tagged and trapped in a box.
A tiger caught by its toe and yet I could do nothing
but fall under the spell of your roar.
The suppressed growl you leave for me
like an invitation I could never decline.
I write to you a note of explanation;
words testifying to my desire,
which I promise to hold back out of respect for you.
And a wish to survive my drive toward you
and your furious stripes and claws.
Your bite which I long to feel,
yet know I must not ask for.
When I inquire if you have read,
you say with sanguine smile, “Read it to me.”
When I am done and with tear stained face,
all you reply is,
“I have lost my taste for anyone but you.”