a poem

Introduction

Writing without emotion is quite difficult at this age, at this stage.
Maybe just one page without emotion will not be so hard a concoction.
Rhyming is such a bad, bad habit. I have not even begun
the story, and already poetry is such a distraction.

I step in the door, and already I slip. Is life full of warning?
I have been slipping the whole snowy way, this snowy day.
He is the first person I see, unbuttoning my coat.
The party has only just begun, very few people.
Only him, in a way, two others, and me with someone.

He greets when introduced, but I can tell he has not seen me.
Hello. How polite! And he only has eyes for her.
I do not remember when we all gathered in the kitchen, but we did,
And he told me he was a writer. And if his looks were not piercing enough,
That word signed my deal with Cupid - I’m trying metaphor not emotion.

I told him a story about writing. I actually gave him a metaphor.
He interrupted me once, to correct an inconsequential fact,
In the manner of literary scholars, “But I was certain that…”
Yet, knowing it only detracted from the point, was quiet.
I gave him a metaphor. I actually told him a story about writing.

And I could see then that he actually looked at me.
I looked at my wine glass. And we were properly introduced.
He was very attentive the rest of the evening.
I tried to be - I was - charming. And I even played it coy.
Anyone else could tell we were at it, except him and I.

- CK