The Poem by Jerry Pike

Re-reading the curls of your writing, I stumble,
knee twist, arm bent to write angles,
smiling at a whimsy of a dream, so far away
that its blur blurs, and what might have been
seeps slow as Dali’s clock, to the floor.

Those light airy dreams dance,
squander my sequinned imagination
in a glittering bamboozle of half drunk auras,
never quite fitting your zeppelin charm.
Still I shall sing my song,
re-chorded to fit your jig,
match your whirl,
and live on the tilt of sweet delight
from your memories.
So let those scribbled nouns twist and shape
whoever your flit has become.
Just let me fall again into your smile,
and maybe, you’ll remember me as
at least one, if not the.