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I'm taking three (3) writing courses this term. College Comp, Intro to Poetry, and Making of Metaphor.
The latter has, in the first two weeks, assigned three love poems to be written.
Here's what I've got so far.
Untitled
He stands on her stoop,
having just given a quick jab
to a gray, paint-caked button.
A buzzer sounds inside,
and the silence that follows drags on
as if he just told an awful joke.
He fidgets, trying in vain to dry his palms
inside the pockets of his rented tuxedo.
A noise.
Glancing up from the suddenly interesting tops of his shoes,
he catches sight of her.
A sharp intake of breath.
As the door opens, he pauses.
Staring blankly forward,
he is not overcome by her stark beauty
or some other cliché fate.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder
he panics, breaking character.
"Line?"
--
Hollywood Romance
A table set for two,
lit by a single candle.
Half-drunk glasses of wine,
no waiter in sight.
Off to the side of the table
is a bouquet of red roses.
They hold hands, smiling.
Pause.
Zoom out.
A darkened room, a man on his couch,
a blanket covering him,
a remote in his hand.
In the glow of the television
sits an empty popcorn bowl
and a can of soda.
--
Young Love
Sprawled across his bed.
Around him, his room:
Pink Floyd posters on the walls,
a cellphone,
clothing in heaps.
He loved her completely,
calling once or twice an hour.
Stalker if you insist,
but he thought it was loyal.
One day he was answered by an angry beep,
saying her phone was occupied.
Taken aback, he looked around for an idle distraction.
Turning to his dust-covered computer,
the keyboard untouched since he met her,
his journey was short.
The roads to Rome were since redirected:
Everything ends in porn.
His pants fell past his knees
and he began with the fervor of a madwoman making toast.
Across the room his phone began to ring,
but he would not abandon his post.
Time passed, he finished.
Ten feet away, the phone blinked.
"Eh," he said, "maybe tomorrow."
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