Maybe it was the billboards promising
paradise, maybe those fifty-nine miles
with your hand in mine, maybe my sexy
roadster, the top down, maybe the wind
fingering your hair, sun on your thighs
and bare chest, maybe it was just the ride
over the sea split in two by the highway
to Key Largo, or the idea of Key Largo.
Maybe I was finally in the right place
at the right time with the right person.
Maybe there'd finally be a house, a dog
named Chu, a lawn to mow, neighbors,
dinner parties, and you forever obsessed
with crossword puzzles and Carl Young,
reading in the dark by the moonlight,
at my bedside every night. Maybe. Maybe
it was the clouds paused at the horizon,
the blinding fields of golden sawgrass,
the mangrove islands tangled, inseparable
as we might be. Maybe I should've said
something, promised you something,
asked you to stay a while, maybe.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Maybe by Richard Blanco )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
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