Play-Date

 

I was a convenient object
In the cupboard of your cognates.
Exposed only for play-dates
And forlorn meditation—
In limbo between rapture
And the cobwebbed bureau.

Does she sleep under my comforter?
Is that the book we bought in Big Sky land
Over burnt coffee on your night stand?
And my card in the windowsill
That printed owl hoots,
“You’re a rare bird.”

Do all unrequited love objects
Occupy dank corner closets?
Perhaps you prefer display,
Nonchalantly say, “it’s from a friend,”
Before demanding oblivion
In momentary caress and thrust.

I have dreams.
We are together again,
You are packing up my things—
My jewels, my poems, my song;
You lead me out the door purring,
 “It was only make-believe.”