This is where
I wish you didn’t care
if I call you
Or IM, too.
If only you’d dare.

I saw a blog posting called “Those Shoes! Those Feet!” and posted this poem there.

When she had to choose
she chose to snooze.
She and I lose,
‘cuz
now I have the
Can’t tell her the news
about my New
Shoes
Blues.

Plenty of fish in the sea,
but few close by me
who I really think
I want to see.
U C?
Really.

I could pursue you to/
the depths of your heart’s desire./
I could write you/
poetry that would set your heart on fire./
I could be the man who/
pursued you like no one else could or can./
I could be/
he,/
if you’ll simply/
let me/
be.

Only a real deal/
such as yourself/
could help me desire/
to put Tacoma’s ghosts on the shelf./
To tread through Old Town streets/
where other women ran rough-shod/
over my heart with their feet.

Yet another weekend ev’n is past;/
The week soon starts again, too fast,/
Yet we sit, still, at our keyboard,/
and wonder why we are alone, tired, bored./
Or are we truly resolute and complete?/
Do we view/
our solitude/
as victory, not defeat?/
We may nurse our whine/
with wine;/
assuage our aged fear
with beer./
But if we, with our own company, are endeared,/
then why sit we, fingers dancing, quasi-romancing, here?

I met a brain surgeon./
We had a great time!/
She’d never seen, for certain,/
a frontal lobe like mine!/
In perfect condition!/
She was stunned and amused./
She thought: “Something’s missing!”/
‘Til she discovered: It was unused!

On your birthday memories
flood back to me.
I struggle to say
words that won’t mar your day.

The things my mind sees:
Birthday dirges, roses,
Flat Stanley;
Breakfast “MOM!” poses.

A card and bag of cookies
seem small gifts of appreciation
to the great gifts you gave me:
Two daughters, three sons.

As those thoughts flood my memory,
I can only add this: I’m sorry.