To Be Remembered by an Old Poet

Years later -- years and years
and children and marriages and so long
I've forgotten how he smelled --
was it apricots or a bear-sweat
-- it was something in between apricots
and bear sweat -- so long later I learned
that to him "liking" didn't matter.
I was one of many, not the first,
not the last (so many things are like that,
I see it all the time) and I now
serve as a reminder of
those times -- how awful! -- O, and he recalls
I was moody. Yes, I like to be reminded of that.
What about the fine
ass? He remembers that as well. I take the blame.
I do have a fine ass and I am moody
and I only wanted his words. I wanted to hold
them in my too small hands
-- he better not repeat my hands are too small;
I have already said that I
know they are too small, it's like the moodiness -- I wanted
to fold his words up and keep a few for myself -- he
could always make more for himself. Perhaps
I wanted to be liked as well. That would have been nice.
I'll remember him fondly anyway. Yes, it apricots
and bear and I liked the smooth skin
and the words I kept, I still like them, but I
have folded them up and
can't find them anywhere.

Copyright Louise Robertson