By: Mary Kane

I used to write poems
for you, used to
see paper napkins fly
like puffy white clouds
in good country air
and eat blueberry pie
and drink coffee
thinking all the while
of a kind of love
that involved
feeling understood,
whatever the heck
I meant by that. Now
I feel a little sad
much of the time
though I kinda enjoy it
and all our efforts
at communication
are like trying to make
simple toast
with butter and jam
but always burning it.
Dang! So I think,
heck, I can’t keep
wasting good bread
this way. I think,
I’ll offer cucumber sandwiches
to the women next door
instead and settle
in with a good
book and some quality
solitude with
birds in the distance
and the cat
across the room
cleaning himself
for company.