sitting cross legged on the linoleum
reading Keats aloud while she bathed
talking about the desire to write for the ages
and what it takes to be a “real” poet
she leans forward smiling
grabs me and draws me close
planting the sweetest kiss
upon my lips
“you are my favorite poet”
she says
and leans back into the steaming water
“…but you can read more of him if you want” –