Robert Frost sat in a chair.
Robert Frost wore a hat that
I don’t quite know how to describe
(was it a beret?)
and smoked from a hookah.
He let the smoke out from his mouth
and disappeared in it.
(Robert Frost was not the man
who wrote that poem about
two roads diverged in a wood and I…
I took the one less traveled by.)
Robert Frost was a man who I loved
very much and who I believe did
not love me.
He was an enigma to me
and I was one to him…
but he was effortless, and
I was planned.
My heart was set on Frost but
I never quite (or
I suppose at all)
won him --
he chose her, which
tortured my heart at the time, but
today…
…I am happy,
happy for him.
Robert Frost sat in a chair
smoking from a hookah.
He disappeared into the smoke and
I stared at him,
mesmerized.
He was the cuts on my arms
and the bruises on my thighs,
the bags under my eyes for the late nights
I stayed up crying;
the slump in my shoulders,
the hesitation in my stare --
in every way the source of my misery and
yet in every way,
while blinding,
my hope.