He’d Write Her a Poem, He Thought
Yes, it was time, he thought,
Time for a poem.
He’ll write all the memories
Down on paper and keep it tucked
In an unused pocket and read it in
Quiet moments alone with his thoughts,
The yellow pages creased
Against his hands.
Yes, time for a poem.
The kind that caught the light against
The small freckle on the middle of
Her right cheek.
He’ll know peace when he gets it down
And it’s all there.
He can see it now as he holds his pen, the
Favorite one, yes, yes! Her eyes in the sun
From the surface of the pond as the light sets.
They were hazel. She said he should’ve known
That by now.
But now he does and she is gone for good.