Just because I'm writing

Michele Boyd



a poem doesn't mean I drink
Fin du Monde, eat osso buco
live in a loft in Soho,
smoke cheroots, have three cats,
and collect odd artifacts.

Just because I have words sometimes
that ring my doorbell at night,
run away laughing, snickering
while I stand in the middle
of the living room, my heart
pounding, doesn't mean
I'm frightened or ashamed
of my shaking hands.

Just because you have ideas
of how things are I'm not
going to stop. I can't imagine
everything is everything
to everyone. That's too big---
we are all about the same size.

My friend told me once
that while we wait
for the prince we get married,
then fall in love, have children,
all the time a part of us
still hovers at the window
the other shoe in our pocket.

So while I'm there anyway
I may as well make a note of things---
the curve of sky,
the poor fits of the jambs,
peeling paint, a dead fly,
the slant of light, the air,
or even the way my clothes
have taken on the lopsided
weight and shape of a heel and sole,
and how glass is liquid moving really slow.

Michele Boyd