To a Balcony in Verona
Shall I bring you a Mars bar?
It is two days until we meet again,
And I remember: We spoke once,
Like in the Bible,
Beneath seven tall buildings.
I shall not bring you that chocolate bar, though,
Because Mars bars fail like Venice in April.
Strange: I cannot mention your voice again—
Your voice, eloquent like the love gods;
And me, all wrapped in redundancy.
Instead, I would carry
A cherry milkshake to you,
Not a book of Japanese poetry,
For that would be pathetic,
And I do not read.
Shakespeare is a fag,
And he would liken you
To a day in the summer.
I would be inclined,
Instead, to tell you that I howl at waitresses
And that Sigmund Freud was obsessed with cocaine.
Still, the two days will come slowly,
And then I shall speak
Of the House of Capulet
And a balcony in Verona.
You will be confused,
But you will smile and tell me:
“My daughter is coming to visit tomorrow,
And she has debts from school.”
Then you will turn
And tend your coffee pots,
And I shall walk away,
Thinking in a straitjacket
That I shall be alone another week.
I shall take 16 steps down until I reach the cold air
And my Honda parked in winter.