Of Course Not Love
I eat bananas and wait for you,
And I live not in St. E’s.
I would say it is your voice,
Not the clowns,
The neck is innocent enough,
Not the lower lip of your face,
Which no man touches or kisses,
Unless I am psychotic.
Shall we picnic?
I shall bring two, ripe Red Bartlett pears
And cherry milkshakes from the diner
We tried to visit on Christmas night.
I forgot to say Merry Christmas
And talked of my insanity on 22 July.
In one hundred words I would say I love you,
But I dare not be consumed by a cliché;
Besides I do not know you,
But your voice,
Which walked with me
Calmly, oddly—was it one or two or three weeks ago?