Wednesday, September 19, 2007

She Tells A Story Of How They Met

I have always believed
love is a journey,
not a destination.

When the Purple Space Shuttle of Love
landed in my city, my face went slack.
I knew it was coming for me.

It touched down on the Thruway, near Exit 45.
Later it was seen taxiing up I-490 West.
Though it was rush hour, few drivers seemed to notice
it rolling forward in the long streams of traffic.
It went up the ramp at Exit 17,
like a prefab house on wheels, Wide Load,
taking up two lanes, no one tried to pass.
It took a left on Goodman, a right on Caroline,
a left on Seager, and pulled up in front of my house.

The pilot got out, he was taller than I had guessed
from our correspondence. I had him come in.
We had tea and crackers on the uncomfortable futon
of first acquaintance. I could tell from his shy happiness,
as he looked longingly past the fronds of the peace lily,
he'd invite me to travel to his world,
and, until he could secure a job here,
we'd shuttle back and forth on weekends and days off.

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