would-be friend
|
phoning at eleven
solstice day having bought
hay from a neighbor
to seal freeze-up winds
from under my cabin
you arrive at one
with the seductive fodder
we jam by the hands full
where there is no skirting
around my woods-home
or our redolent affinities
by two we're evading
appetizers fidgeting over
chicken and strong coffee
new friend lunch talk
you leave at three
later that evening bending
at my bookcase for short
stories i don't want to read
lust lingers whiffing
itself up through the cracks
in my poe-ian floorboards
mixed grass alfalfa and open
clover field scents of you
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Poem by Janet Cannon
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Previously published in
Potato Eyes
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