Will You? Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Will You?



I fall asleep at night, with ease
alone, and captain of my sheets.
The other pillow still remains
unused, 'tis sad though, I can say.

She left and took
her trinquets
her mink,
a thousand shoes,
twelve plastic cards,
an album of rare stamps,
nylons from Bon Marché,
the Merc,
false nails,
ten boob supports,
coupons and files,
Aunt Hulda's coins,
both Sonys
and a wad of cash.

She'd come
some day
for photos
of the brats,
and us,
of the reunions
and the trip to Spain.

I kept the Satin sheets,
her pillow
and the pumicestone.

I wake alone,
I dream
and drool
but
never touch
what cradled her,
withstood the gel,
the overnight renew
and hops inside
to help attain
a perfect sleep.

And then,
there came the day
when I awoke
from lethargy,
put on my thongs
and went
for city walkabout.

Eyes must be trained
and mine were not,
they'd learned
to sleep
and let the world
and all its women pass.

Until the day
that she,
whom I describe
as a blue flower
of the very special kind.

Exquisite plant,
she winked.
I kid you not.
Her lashes were
not false,
a reassurance
of the kind
that men,
becoming set
in their own ways
and (really) stale,
would take
as cash in hand
to pay for inner peace.

We spent
what turned into
a silent avalanche,
to be averted
yet unwilling to comply.

She touched,
I did return
and there was heat
and laughter
all the same,
and there was need.

I have removed
at once,
the pillow
from the past.

Its place,
now occupied
with timid pride
and hope
that cries its tears
and laughs its joys,
by stubby shorts
and Bond's Y-type,
a bright Hawaiian shirt
and one small handkerchief.

It smells of HER,
a scent
to kill all doubts
just for
a little while.

And there is room
in case she comes.
And a new pillow
and the real things
in life.

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