~MICHAEL DOBBERSTEIN~

OUR STORY

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Now you say that love as most things matters by degree,   
Has colors delicate as brushstrokes. Think of shadows, 
You say, thin as veins on a field of new snow, 
Imagine the deepest green subtle as a glance through a doorway.
 
Love, we had our moments, even at the beer garden in the suburbs,
The one overlooking the burnt-out church and the garage
Where old cars like abandoned pews opened into empty air.
In the hard sun, our eyes turned bright as chrome.
 
And for better or worse the all-night diner, the midnight
Waitress like a wounded bird picking at empty tables,
The drunks propped inside the long shadows of their faces.
You remember: white plates stunned in the fluorescent burst.
 
I wouldn't leave out the back seat in the parking lot, away
From the puddles of light, the loud smear of the street.
Under rows of windows flickering in the backs of buildings
Your red silk blouse, the long skirt that buttoned up the side.
 
 

© by Michael Dobberstein