I dreamed of taking/
your hand by the lakeshore, then/
taking your picture.

She was late for her/
dinner I’d made. Just as well./
She didn’t like it.

When I was young, my Grandma Bertha took the last piece of cherry pie, split it in half, and gave a piece to my sister and a piece to me. I examined the two pieces and loudly objected. “She has a bigger piece!”
Grandma quickly took my piece, said something like “I’m sorry you don’t like yours”, and ate it herself. I got nothing…except a lesson.

When I complain, I/
don’t get what i want. Truth? I/
get nothing at all.

I, chilled, snuggle with/
a cold lavender pillow./
I wish it was you.

Here I lay, hand where/
it shouldn’t be, dreaming and/
hoping you will call.

To a woman I don’t know,
who is in sorrow:
I wanted this night
to be different;
to end right,
but that’s not how it went.

Instead of going dancing,
with a woman of much hope,
there was no romancing,
and I feel like a dope.

She didn’t have a Benz,
nor hair of blonde.
The similarity ends,
and I’m certain I could be more fond
of you
than she
of me.
Silly, I know,
to compare or connect
our sorrows;
our wrecks.

I guess I want to say “You’re not alone
in sorrow.” That’s why I wrote this poem.

She, from a cold and/
forbidding place, still opens/
my heart and warms me.

To send a photo/
au Natural, then not care/
is fair but not fair.

My funny comment/
on what you gave up for Lent/
was, alas, not sent.

Would it still chill thee/
to hear me say that you thrill/
me in many ways?