We've Never Met

We've never met, but when you gaze
at the honking geese in the air,

your dog with its flash of tail
having slipped through your door's crack

like your husband ten years ago,
never returning

do you think of me? Do you imagine
a man with an impeccable tie,

or maybe a man with a red beret
sitting atop a stack of novels
in a Berkeley bookstore?

I see your kind face, your hand
brushing back a strand of hair
as you stand in your doorway.

We share the same veiled moon,
the sleeves of mist, the sad fog horns.

I have been like a road hidden
in snow, waiting for Spring
to uncover me. We don't know

each other, but I have a feeling
that soon you will show up
with all your warmth.

Bob Bradshaw is a programmer and a big fan of the Rolling Stones.  His garage is the jamming grounds for his son's punk rock band.  The neighbors don't appreciate this genre of music.   But Bob does.  Recent work of his can be found at Eclectica, Slow Trains, Poems Niederngasse and Orange Room Review.

© 2009, Bob Bradshaw