I wrote him a poem
And kept it well hid
Til' the day that I thought
He should hear what I'd writ'.
So I sat by his side,
And watched his eyes perk
As I told him I'd let him,
Just once, read my work.
I don't think he realized
I wrote it for him
But I saw on his face
As it suddenly sank in.
He looked in my eyes,
His as wide as the moon,
And said I expected
Too much
Too soon.
He got up to leave,
Threw my book to the ground,
I begged and I pleaded
But he heard no sound.
He turned on his heel
As I drowned in regret.
Guess that's what the vulnerable
Poets get.

- p. winter