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Dana Marie Andra Jun 2012
Others have relationships.
I have infatuations.

Pale-skinned blonds with
kind faces attract me.

Joan was one of these.

I went after her
and found she was as nice as she looked.

But
someone else
had gotten there first.

It depressed me.

I refused to forget about
her.

I walked past her apartment door
hoping she'd come out.

The door had a number 13 on it.
I knew she was
behind it...doing things.
Living.

She never came out.

I saw her once in the laundry room.
She was with her boyfriend
but she said "hi" to me.

I later found out she'd
gotten married and had two kids.

Why'd she have to go
and do a thing
like that?
Dana Marie Andra Jun 2012
What seemed so
special
was just
everyday life and
what seemed so
unbearable
was just
more of the same.
Dana Marie Andra Jun 2012
Like music in a
dream, the whisper of your skin
sounds like love to me.
Dana Marie Andra Jun 2012
I think of her, and wish to
be with her,

my love for her having been
repeatedly tested like
an air raid siren.

Our love is authentic
and true and as permanent
as the effects

of a
nuclear war.
Dana Marie Andra Jun 2012
If things ever got so
bad that our money became
virtually worthless, it might be
possible to use poetry as a
medium of exchange.

The better the poem, the
greater the value.

A Pablo Neruda or David Ignatow
would be worth something like fifty dollars,
whereas a Rod McKuen might buy you a
candy bar.  Maybe.

Richard Brautigans would buy plenty, as well,
but make you question why you were
buying it at all.

A Bukowski poem
would be worth
thousands, but
looked upon as
foreign currency.

Of course, with the current rate of
inflation, one would need more and more Nerudas
and Ignatows just to get by, and eventually a loaf
of bread might cost as much as a short story.

To buy a car, one would need to come up with
two or three novels...good novels...a couple of
Haruki Murakamis.

It would take a wallet full of
Raymond Carver stories just to buy a
motorcycle.

— The End —