~MICHAEL DOBBERSTEIN~
OUR STORY
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
