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Once upon a noteless Saturday night, among others,
sleeping alone beside my graying wife,
I dreamt again, as I have so many times,
of old Bucharest,
of my life as a child torn from a grainy black and white photograph,
of a gleaming white house by the beautiful brown Danube--
in a city older than time,
a dream that dared sample
the silken innocence of a young girl's smile
when I showed her the bracelet
I had made for her myself,
and having a few coins in pocket,
treated her to a carriage ride round
town like we were a couple of
grownups instead of a pair of
nine-year olds.
Hooves clopping rhythmically on the wandering
cobbled streets older than anyone could remember,
driver smartly liveried on his raised platform,
I tasted a promise of the coming fire
when nine-year old raven tressed beauty,
barefoot, pipestem legs and knobby knees,
set off by last year's too small brown cotton
dress, wrapped her arms around my neck,
kissed me full on the mouth
and left me reeling from the wine.
Me! whom no one had kissed in any fashion
time beyond belief,
and suddenly a giddy wave of summer
rolled back October's chill.
And our faces were crimson indeed
when the driver looked and laughed
till his fat belly shook,
and he asked, mirthful tears welling in his eyes,
"When's the wedding?"
For days I could feel those impetuous lips,
those grimy hands and bony arms,
lived it all over again
whenever I closed my eyes.
And when our paths crossed for a moment
as we ran our separate errands,
she flashed me that knowing smile
and wiggled her little hips
as she sauntered past.
Years later, the war came
and things happened the way they do,
and time slipped by as it does,
and now and then I still felt that
wondrous impish kiss even as
her face faded from my memory
like smoke in the wind.
Hands in pockets,
I strode the cold cobbles
of a land not mine.
Nowadays, snow hangs heavy on
the roof, and there is too much time
to read, rock, and remember.
I look over at the dear woman
who's been with me all these years,
and impetuously, I take her in my arms
and kiss her lips,
and every time I do it happens again,
like our first crazy kiss
so long ago
on that carriage ride
with the laughing driver
in old Bucharest.
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