The New Poet
The new poet seems to have nailed it
Saw something I never thought to consider
It isn’t jealousy so much as
A thorn pricked mourning
As if I’d been tricked
Into attending my own funeral
While he sits close and holds her hand
I’m way in the back
Hidden in the shadows of an old elm tree
Her eyes remain veiled
And her body lulls as still as morning grass
So I never know if she cries
Nor can I hear the verses he whispers
Just before they rise to go
5/7/24
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