The Poem

A Short Story by Scott Robertson

I bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and burst into the apartment. “I found her!”

My roommate, Rich Anderson, in his usual studying position—reclining on the couch, looked up from his textbook. “I didn’t know you were looking for anyone. Found whom?”

“The one! My soulmate! The love of my life!”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I’m in love.”

“I see.” He said dryly. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Dana Ward.”

“Who?”

“Dana Ward.” I repeated. “We met her last June, at the end of the semester. Remember? We ran into Barbara Whitinghill, Dana was with her and Barbara introduced us to her. Hi, good-bye, and that was it.”

“So? That was last year.”

“I saw her today.”

“Who, Barbara?”

“No, you idiot! Dana. Barbara graduated. I saw Dana again.”

“And so? Did you have a nice chat?”

“So I’m in love.”

Rich cocked an eyebrow at me, as if he still wasn’t quite sure how to take my declaration. Sharing personal feelings was not among the “guy things” we did, so he had no reason to suspect that I had uttered anything more than a figure of speech. “Back up, Bryan. What are you talking about? What’s the big deal? I sometimes fall in love two or three times a day.”

“I’m talking about love, not lust. Get your mind back above your belt.”

“Excuse me! OK, it’s love. But I repeat: What are you talking about? You can’t possibly be in love; you don’t even know her—or have you been carrying on with the girl this past summer?”

“No, I saw her again for the first time today. And she’s fantastic! I love her!”

“Calm down. You been takin’ some stuff behind my back? You can’t love someone you don’t even know. Which brings us back to the lust department. And that’s OK; a little innocent lust never hurt anyone.” He sat back on the couch, being pointedly calm, as if that would bring me to my senses. “So tell me what happened. What did she do or say that set your heart a-flame?”

“Nothing. She was with some other people, having coffee at the UMC. I don’t even think she saw me.”

“What?!”

“That’s right. We haven’t talked. I told you—I just saw her.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“I know. But as I was watching her, it seemed as if I knew everything about her, what kind of person she is, I mean.”

“And what kind of person is she?”

“She’s terrific! She’s warm, funny; she laughs easily. But she’s not superficial; she cares a lot about people. She’s very sweet.”

“You could tell all about this veritable stranger’s personality from ‘across a crowded room’?”

“Yes. Say, I think you’ve hit upon something there. That song has more truth than poetry, as far as what I’ve just experienced.”

Rich leaned forward, starting to become interested. “Remind me what she looks like. I don’t recall that she’s any raving beauty.”

“Well, she’s not one of those drop-dead gorgeous, beauty queen types, but she is cute. Has sort of a Meg

Ryan look about her—good looking, very natural. She’s, I don’t know, about 5’ 7 or 8”, has shoulder length darkblond hair. Wears it smooth, curled under, not frizzy like she just walked out of the shower. You would remember

her if you saw her again. God knows I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“How’s her bod?”

“Ever the intellectual, aren’t you. She’s not voluptuous. She looks—athletic.”

“So what has brought all this about? You certainly weren’t smitten by her last year.”

“I don’t know. All I know is that when I saw her today I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I just stared at her, absorbing her, watching her toss her head, touching a friend’s hand sharing a precious comment, lowering her chin and narrowing her eyes with a serious observation, so open. I hope nobody saw me. I must have looked like a slack-jawed idiot. But it was the most amazing feeling. As I watched her it seemed as if I was absorbing every essence of her personality, and by the time she and her friends left, I knew her. Obviously I don’t know anything

about her, but I feel that I know her as well as if I had spent every waking moment of my life with her. Which is exactly what I want to do.”

“Does this mean I’ll have to go looking for a new roommate soon?”

I had to laugh, “No, I wouldn’t start advertising just yet. Nothing’s going to happen until I get to meet her again—and then there are no guarantees. I have to do this very carefully. I just know we are perfect for each other. But she doesn’t know it. If I come on too strong, she may figure I’m some jerk and refuse to have anything to do with me. On the other hand, if I come on too slowly and cautiously, someone else might catch her eye and snatch her up before she figures out she’s supposed to be with me.”

“Approaching her like some slobbering, love-starved puppy is probably not going to impress her either.” suggested Rich.

“I know. I can’t make any missteps. This will take some time. I don’t have any features that would instantly attract her to me. I’m no Adonis, no Mr. America, not a great wit.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re halfway witty.”

“Great. I’m a half wit.”

“See what I mean?”

“Thanks. But you know what I’m trying to say. If it’s going to take some time for her to get to know me,

I’ll have plenty of opportunities to screw it up and blow the whole deal. I have to be careful. But I don’t want to get catatonic: so frozen in fear that I’ll make the wrong move, that I don’t make any move.”

“Yes, doing nothing for fear of doing the wrong thing does amount to a self-fulfilling prophecy. You, my friend, do have a problem.”

“At any rate, I have to get it started. I have to find a way to meet her, and get to know her, but in a nonthreatening situation.”

“Perhaps if you had a class in common. What are the odds that she is in the MBA program?”

“Pretty slim. I think she’s still an undergrad, probably a senior, but not in business. I don’t know what she’s in.”

“What a great opportunity for some great, old, opening lines.” Rich put on his snooty, pseudo-sophisticated voice, “Hi, I’m Bryan. Haven’t we met someplace before? What’s your major?”

“Can see you are going to be a big help.” I snorted. “But perhaps there is something you can do. That gal you know in Administration, Linda What’s-her-name; maybe she could find some information. I could crash a class that Dana’s taking and work something out from there.”

“Linda Taylor. OK, I’ll see what I can do. But only because if you continue pining for her the rest of the semester, I’ll probably throw up; and I hate that.”

Ms Taylor was able to learn that Dana Ward was indeed a senior, and a Music major of all things. How was I going to fit in to any class she might be taking? I’m about as musical as a brick. Things were looking dark.

Further investigation revealed that Dana was taking an upper division English History class to meet one of her last GE requirements. Aha! Here was an opportunity. But there were further complications: The session she was in, was exactly the same hour as one of my management courses that was a prerequisite for half a dozen others. Do I sacrifice a year of school to take a chance—I admit it, a real gamble—on love? A dilemma, but very tempting. Fortunately, there was another option (love those multiple choice tests). There was another session during an hour that was open for me. Sign me up! Actually, I just sat in, hoping to get into the class officially, later. I had decided that to make this work, we would really have to have something in common; I couldn’t just be going through the motions. Now I had to get daring. I now had a legitimate excuse, but I had to find an opportunity to meet her.

The opportunity I sought, came sooner and more easily than I had feared. If I had had to follow her around for days waiting for an opportune time, I probably would have been arrested as a stalker. But the same week that I started my educational foray into Jolly Olde England the gods were kind. It was a beautiful Fall day. The huge maple and aspen trees had started to turn color but were still full. The ground was not yet littered with the harvest of the kodachrome season. The morning had started crisp but had climbed into the fifty’s with the promise of a warm afternoon. I just happened to see her as she made her way from her History lecture to the University Memorial Center (the UMC), and she was carrying the textbook. I screwed up my courage, hoped I wasn’t visibly sweating (thank goodness October in Boulder is relatively cool), and walked up to her (God, I hadn’t been this nervous since I first asked a girl out on a date in Junior High School. I could feel the adrenaline surging through me.).

“Excuse me, —Dana Ward?”

“Yes.” (Lovely.)

“Hi, I’m Bryan Bradshaw. We met last year. I’m a friend of Barbara Whitinghill’s.”

“Yes, how are you?”

“Fine. Say, I notice you’re carrying the text to Danielson’s English History class. Are you taking it this semester?” 

(Two choices: First choice: What business is it of yours? Buzz off, Buster. Second choice:)

“Yes, I am. Are you taking it too?” (Such beautiful eyes. —Don’t stare.)

“Yes. I’m crashing his 11:00 Tuesday-Thursday class. I’m quite sure I’ll get in but I have a problem. I’ve missed the first two weeks. Now, I can catch up on the reading, and I have the list of special assignments to date, but I need some insight.”

“Insight?”

“Right, I’m looking for the flavor of the man. With the first midterm coming up next week—he doesn’t mess around does he—I’d like to find out what kind of person he is. If I can get a read on him, it helps to prepare for the slants he might put on questions and might want to see on the answers. Anyway, talking to him in his office is worthless. I need help from someone in his class. I don’t know a soul in my session. So I was wondering, since you and I are such old friends, if you could help me out?”

(First choice: Sure, I’d like to help you out. Which way did you come in? Second choice:)

“Well, how could I turn my back on an old friend, after all we’ve meant to each other.” She laughed.

“Sure. Do you want to get together tomorrow?”

(Do I want … tomorrow?) “Tomorrow would be terrific. Are you free sometime in the afternoon?” (As if I didn’t know you don’t have any classes on Wednesday afternoons.)

“Yes, how about 1:00? Meet you in front of the Norlin Library?” (So decisive.)

“That would be great. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. See you then.” (So friendly.)

“See you. Bye.” (Parting is such sweet sorrow.) Success! I felt like a stupid idiot, like a little, unsure kid, with his first crush. But I hadn’t blown it; I think I came across as an adult with a simple problem. She just had no idea how serious my problem was. Being with her; talking with her; holding a normal, non-consequential conversation; confirmed all the feelings and conclusions I’d had about her earlier—it was great. It felt so good just to be with her. Just don’t blow it, Bryan!

Our meeting the next day went well. It was very businesslike and impersonal; there was the pre-arranged agenda and we stuck to it. It turned out that Dana was one of those who get a very quick “read” on people. By some stroke of fortuitous genius, my opening gambit had tapped one of her many talents. One worrisome note was the nagging fear of what “read” she may be getting on me.

When I returned to the apartment, Rich wanted all the details. “Spill it, Bryan. Have you set the date yet?”

“Knock it off,” I warned. “This is serious business. I’m on thin ice, and working without a net.”

“Rather odd combination of metaphors, but in the interest of pumping you further for information, I refuse to get side-tracked on the issue of just who is it that writes your material. So what happened? How did it go?”

“Very well, I think. She is quite a “people” person, and provided me with some excellent insight on Dr.

Danielson that should prove extremely beneficial as I prepare for his examination. I think I will do quite well on the test, thank you.”

He took a swing at me. “Now you knock it off. You know what I’m talking about.”

“It went great! The only thing we talked about was Danielson and the test, but it was so easy to be with Nher—just as natural as can be. I think we’ll probably get together in the future to study. But somehow I have to move beyond that.”

“Here’s a thought. Kind of a crazy idea, but stay with me on this, it’s a rather novel approach, but not too far out. Have you considered asking her out on a date?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course I have. And I’ve also considered the consequences of rejection. If I ask her out, and she says no—which she might because we don’t know each other well enough yet—then she’s almost committing us to a platonic relationship and the best I’ll ever do is spend time with her in the library. No, I have to make sure the time is right before I do something rash. I can’t risk a single rejection that might cast our relationship in concrete.”

“Bryan, you’re being paranoid. Lots of people ask people out before they know each other well. That’s how they get to know each other.”

“I know that; I’ve been in that same boat myself. But refusals do happen. Who knows how many couples never got the chance to happen because of that first “No”? And they might have been perfect for each other.”

“But you can “what if” yourself to death on this.”

“Don’t think I haven’t told myself that a thousand times. But, I can’t take any chances; I have to do this right. Rich, after being with her today I’m more sure than ever. She is a very special person. She made me feel special just being with her. All those impressions I had when I saw her two weeks ago are still there.”

“Well, you still really don’t know her yet. You may find that this flash of infatuation has skewed your vision. As you learn more about her, reality may cruelly bust your bubble. You may be totally incompatible.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“She may not like boys.”

“Impossible.”

“She may be a Democrat.”

“Don’t care.”

“She may be an atheist.”

“Highly unlikely. Not with her spirit.”

“My point is you still do not know anything about her. You’re committing yourself to this lofty goal, and you don’t have any facts. You may find out things you may not like. Don’t lock yourself into a situation that you’ll later regret. If you plan on spending the rest of your life with someone, the relationship has to have more going for

it than the crush of love at first sight.”

“Rich, I had no idea you were so deep.”

“It’s just that I know you’re all excited about the image you have of this girl. Just be aware that perception may not equal reality. You know the old saying: Be careful what you wish for—you may get it.”

“I certainly hope so. But I appreciate your concern. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything stupid. But

I know I’m right about Dana. She’s wonderful.”

“Well, I wish you luck.”

Unfortunately, I knew I needed more than luck. Besides not making any mistakes, I needed to do something very right. Somehow I knew that just letting the relationship grow and evolve was not going to work.

Somewhere along the line I would have to do something dramatic. Something that would overwhelm her, sweep her off her feet, let her know precisely how I felt while simultaneously creating those same desires in her. When I was with her, I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her, yet we’d really only spoken on two occasions. I wasn’t going to last much longer. I had to do something. But what?

I slept on it. It came to me.

The next morning, over breakfast cereal, I announced it. “I’m going to write her a poem.”

“You’re going to do what?”

“You heard me: a poem.”

“A poem.”

“Right. It’s a natural. She’s into the arts; she’ll appreciate something like that. If I can express exactly how

I feel and what a special person she is, and do it well, she’ll also get an idea of what kind of person I am. If we really are the kind of fit I think we are, she’ll recognize that fact in a flash. And, pow!, instant relationship.”

“Bryan, I hate to break this to you, but you are not the reincarnation of Lord Bryan. What makes you think you can write poetry; let alone good poetry, which you admit you have to have?”

“That’s Lord Byron, you clod. It will be good because it has to be good. Coming from the heart, it can’t help be anything else but.”

“You’re naive. I’ve heard that it is hard work to do it well.”

“Ah, but I’ll be inspired. One thing that will make it more difficult, is that I’ve decided not to write it free verse. That would be easier, to do a stream of consciousness sort of thing; but being into music, I think she’ll appreciate it more if it has meter and rhyme.”

“You’re crazy! Bad poetry, with forced rhyme, is even worse. Your effort will be counterproductive. You will completely turn her off and make a fool of yourself in the bargain. You’ll be much better off just getting to know her. Do it the old fashion way. This grandstand approach is asking for disaster. Given the way you feel about her, how can you propose something so risky?”

“Given the way I feel about her, I have to do something this risky.”

“You’re out of your mind. But it’s your funeral. Pass me the milk.”

With that, the conversation was over. Rich never again tried to dissuade me. In fact, we never talked about he subject again, until the end. He had done his duty as a friend. And if one chooses to reject good advice, there is no point in harping about it. In the days to come, he must have been aware that my many late nights were not entirely devoted to studying and course related research, but he never queried me and I volunteered nothing. It was far too personal to share. And he had been right: I was naive. Being inspired is one thing. Being able to put that inspiration down on paper, in an organized, flowing fashion was quite another. But it was certainly not something I was going to ask his advice on. 

I don’t think I had read any poetry since English 1B as a Freshman. Why I thought this was the way I had to communicate with Dana, or why I thought it would be easy, is beyond me. I started out by filling up pages of thoughts about her—images, and feelings. Some I put down as straight facts, others I expressed as metaphors and analogies. My head and heart was so full of these things, I thought if I can just get them down, I’ll sort it out later. I started spending days in the library—reading the great romantic poets, trying to develop some sense of how to express myself in this foreign form. I did not want to copy anyone’s style, but I did want to absorb the muse, to try to teach myself some instinct, if such a thing is possible. Finally, after a few weeks of spending hours a day on it, I was able to actually put some of my thoughts in a poetic form. It was slow going, but it was a start.

In the meantime, Dana and I did get together occasionally at the library to study English History. We’d brainstorm possible test questions and responses. For a break, we went over to the Student Center for coffee or tea a few times. It was never really a “date,” but slowly we were getting to know one another.

I had been right about her being athletic. She played on different teams for her sorority, and loved softball.

I thought this was a good sign of compatibility. I also enjoy athletic competition, though was never close to being good enough to go out for any intercollegiate sport. Intramurals were just fine with me. That was one of the things I missed about being in grad school: the fewer opportunities to participate in team sports. I thought about how great it would be to go skiing with Dana in the Rockies this winter—if it didn’t take me till Spring to finish the poem.

That poem was killing my grades. It was taking shape, but ever so slowly. I would struggle for a week over a stanza, then two weeks later start a rewrite because I wasn’t happy with it. The amazing (to me at any rate) thing was that, for all my plodding efforts, the nights spent to get one line just right, it was looking pretty good.

Since the words were not springing from my mind through my fingers to the pen and paper with effortless grace, the result could have been awkward and forced, like Rich had warned me. But the pieces that were “finished” (I wasn’t committing to calling anything done till the whole thing was ready) seemed pretty smooth, and said what I was trying to express in ways that surprised me. Images and phrasing, that I never would have believed were in me, wove and rhymed throughout the poem. Like I had told Rich, it does help to be inspired. Meanwhile, the time and effort it took to create this masterpiece was taking its toll. In fact, the only class in which I was getting a decent grade was English History.

There was another new talent that I started developing: calligraphy. I bought an instruction book and some special pens and practiced every night. I figured, if I was working this hard to create a poetic “masterpiece,” I should also make it look as special as I could. Typing it would definitely not do, and just using my regular handwriting would not be enough. Hence—calligraphy. Turned out that I had a knack for it too. It wasn’t long before beautiful lettering would flow from that pen, with little effort on my part.

Meanwhile, there was Dana. I was aching to tell her how I felt. But I knew that if I jumped the gun, and expressed my love before our relationship had developed to the level where such a declaration was reasonable, there was the danger that too much, too soon would doom the relationship before it had a chance to start. Through the poem, I was willing to take that chance. It was my greatest hope of getting it said—just right.

I watched her with her friends. She seemed to have a lot of them, both male and female. To my constant amazement, and relief, she did not seem to have a particularly special male friend. I suppose that could have been due to having a “boy back home,” but somehow I doubted that that was the case and it really didn’t worry me. I watched her playing intramural volleyball with her sorority. If she disagreed with the referee’s call she wasn’t afraid to let him know about it; but she wouldn’t over do it; she maintained her composure. I justified these clandestine views of her life as research for the poem. The library visits with her were too academic to be helpful. I cherished them but they were too narrow a view. When I had spotted her back at the beginning of the semester, I had thought, in that magical moment, that I had somehow absorbed every facet of her personality. But I had only scratched the surface. Now, as I was learning more about her, initial impressions were confirmed and I loved her even more.

Finally it was finished.

It had taken me two months. It probably wasn’t perfect, but it was as good as I was going to be able to get it. I was actually quite proud of my product. It was direct, and it was subtle. Sometimes the real meanings were between the lines. It not only expressed how I felt, but it was enjoyable to read. The meter and rhyme, that at times were a struggle and at times came as easily as breathing, were as natural as I could have hoped for. The story it told was Dana. The poem was essentially just a description of her. But I knew that, the way the story was told, my feeling for her would be abundantly clear. In a clever stroke of ingenuity, the poem was entitled: Dana.

We had arranged to meet at the library to discuss some History before the next big midterm. Leaving for campus, on my way out the door, I announced to Rich that I was going to give her the poem today.

“So today’s the big day. How do you feel about it?”

“Excited. Nervous. Confident. Scared. I expect so much from it, and so much is riding on it. If it doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do. But it’s the best I can do.”

“Well, I know you have put an awful lot of work into it. You deserve the best. I hope it works out for you.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Did you keep a copy of it?”

“No. If it works, she’ll cherish it and keep it forever. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have failed and I don’t want any reminders. It will hurt bad enough as it is. But not to worry. She will love it, and she will love me as I love her.”

“Well, best of luck.”

And I was on my way. Dana and I met in the small room in a corner of the library that we always reserved when we had material to discuss. I didn’t give her the poem right away, figuring that we should take care of business first. Frankly, I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to present it to her. Probably should have rehearsed this, or planned ahead a little bit. It’s not as if this moment was a big surprise to me. Finally, it was time for us to leave. We walked outside and started to go our separate ways. It was now or never.

“Ah, Dana. I have something for you.”

“Yes, Bryan?”

I handed her the four pages, folded. “You need to take a look at this. It’s pretty important. Don’t read it now. We can talk about it later.”

“OK. Thanks.” She put it into her pack. “See you next week. Good luck on the test.”

“Same to you. Bye.”

Somehow I managed to make it through the test and then the weekend. I was numb with the uncertainty.

Was it enough? Was it too much? What had seemed so terribly right before, now seemed foolish. Or brilliant. I didn’t know. I did know that I loved Dana Ward with all my heart, and that I would do all that I could to win her love. If the poem didn’t work, I would try something else. Monday morning I waited for her outside Music Hall.

As she came out of class, she spied me, and her smile told me all I needed to know.

“Hi! What are you doing here?”

“Well, I thought I ought to break up the routine and meet you someplace other than the library.”

“What a marvelous idea. We were in sort of a rut, weren’t we.”

“Yes, indeed.” I took her hand. “And since we are in a rut breaking mood, I was wondering, if you’re free, if you’d like to have dinner and then take in the C.U. symphony orchestra Wednesday?”

She gave my hand a squeeze. “I’d love to. What time?”

“Six o’clock OK?”

“That would be fine.”

I squeezed back. “Terrific. Well, I’d better run. You have no idea how far behind I am in my studies.”

On the way back to the apartment, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. I was so happy! It had worked!

This was wonderful! I felt a strange sense of release—and contentment. The work ethic I had developed working on the poem, I now applied to my course work. I hit it hard for the next three days, even skipped English History (holding an A there anyway). I figured that there just might be enough time left in the semester to rescue the rest of my classes. Wednesday I picked her up and we went to a nice, but inexpensive, restaurant in town. She looked beautiful. The symphony was great. They played Beethoven and Schubert, which, for me, was most appropriate. I was in the mood for enthusiastic music.

I drove her home, and as we walked to the door, holding her hand was the most natural thing in the world.

The good-night kiss was light and lingering. A pause—and then passion took over. I held her tight as we kissed, and her grip on me was just as fierce.

When we stopped to catch our breath, still clinging to each other, I murmured, “Oh, Dana, I love you so much!”

She softly replied, “I know. The feeling is mutual.”

Another long kiss, and it was time to go. I was on air.

We still had our own lives to lead, so we could not be together constantly. But neither one of us seemed to think that was necessary anyway. Nevertheless, we got together when we could: between classes and in the evening. Most of the time was spent studying. She seemed to understand my situation and respected my need for intensive catch-up. We also took time for quiet talks—we still needed to get to know one another better—and of course, passion. This went on for a week and a half, and neither one of us mentioned the poem.

On Saturday we went up into the hills for a hike. The previous week’s snow was crunchy underfoot. Our parkas kept us warm, while the crisp air numbed our cheeks. At the end of the day, with our backs to the reddening sky, Dana sat in front of me, my arms around her, and we watched the shadows of the Rockies stretch out toward the plains.

Finally, if only for a critical evaluation as a piece of literature, I had to ask, “So tell me. What did you think of the poem?”

“Poem?”

“Yes, the poem.”

“What poem?”

“My poem. The one I gave you two weeks ago”

“What are you talking about?”

“You remember. Just before the last history test, I gave it to you as we left the library after we finished studying. I told you it was important.”

She turned to look at me, “That was a poem?”

“You didn’t read it? You didn’t read it!”

“I recall your saying it was important, but I assumed to was related to the test. I stuck it in with the rest of my papers, but somehow it must have gotten tossed out; I couldn’t find it. I felt I was pretty well prepared anyway, so I didn’t want to trouble you about it. And I did well on the exam. Whatever important information you had for me was nice but unnecessary; I survived without it. You wrote a poem?”

“Yes! I wrote it for you. I poured my heart and soul into that thing. Told you how wonderful you are. Told you how I felt. Told you of my fears, how I didn’t want to lose you by making a mistake. And you didn’t even read it. Why weren’t you put off when all of a sudden I started wanting to do more than study with you? My God, I told you I loved you our first date! You didn’t have the poem to explain it all, to warn you.”

“Sweetheart, I love you for it, but it really wasn’t necessary. I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in

September. Darling, I’ve had the same fears. I too was afraid to make a move. I’ve always been a pretty decisive person, but with you I didn’t know what to do. Aggressive women can scare a guy off. I didn’t know how to meet you and was so relieved when you came up to me that day. I’ve been dreaming of this past week for the whole semester. I’m sorry I lost your poem. I would have loved to have seen it. Can you write me another?”

“Are you kidding? I took me two months to write that thing!”

“Oh dear. I am sorry.”

“That’s OK. To coin a trite phrase, it was a labor of love. Anyway, what I wanted is you. The poem was just a tool.”

“And you have me, body and soul. We have the rest of our lives; you’ll have time to write another.”

“Yes, we do, don’t we. Maybe I will.” And I forgave her with a kiss.

END