Note to Self

I met him in the breathless month of June.
He warmed my heart and took away my stress.
We kissed under a silvered summer moon -
he had no flaws on which I could obsess.

Yet worry worked its way in like a snake.
I tried to tell myself the point was moot -
his loving was the frosting on my cake
Yes, you could say he really was a beaut.

Old movies flickered – Gable and Garbo.
They moved in chiaroscuro shadow play –
a queen or showgirl, cowboy or hobo.
We gazed in awe, enraptured through the day.

I played the Garbo role in full rhinestone
and he was Gable, ripe with cheap cologne.

P. Jessen

If you have any comments on this poem, P. Jessen would be pleased to hear them.

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