No poems for three months, no near poems,
I revise, clean up, throw out. I index the
survivors by first word or key word. No X or
Z, of course, but at least one poem for every
other letter - except L. And how can that
be? The one who loves her family, loves her
friends, loves her lovely garden, loved the
lovers who long ago moved on, has nothing
left to say?
What about Laughter? What about Life?
Am I waiting to be named queen of loss and
Better to settle for lunch in the small French
restaurant downtown, where a casual companion
lifts my hand to his lips: La langue, time
now to speak of light verse.
This poem first appeared in Verbatim, Autumn 2004, vol. XXIX, no. 3.
Annette Basalyga loves Limericks, Leonine rhyme and Light verse.
Maybe in March she'll move on to Monostich.