The Woman Who Let Him Write

For the sake of awareness and memory

he takes brief notes on what piques his curiosity,

which allows him to see his own pretension.

He laughs but would never try to change

as his mounds of notebooks grow.

He merely smiles at the never-read notebook piles.

 “How pretentious,” he says, but quickly adds, “Clarity is important.

Written words are clearer than thoughts.”

One day he’ll give that habit up, she hopes.

He has a complete collection of Coltrane, she notes,

and to cover a stain, there’s a black and white Ansel Adams print on his wall

that is beautiful in spite of it all.

She looks down at his words

where he lays outstretched to relax.

The writing is showy and self-important to the max;

full of swirls and twirls,

flamboyant to say the least.

There is always a book in his hands

though he never reads as he stands leaning against the wall

James Dean-like, posed-like,

but it’s only one of several poses he naturally strikes

when he’s thinking.

The life wheel keeps turning,

each year she keeps yearning as he laughs

though she rarely does.

Only two months her junior,

he looks so much younger.

As the days go by, her limitations are barely hidden,

her life possibilities are shrinking

her inner world is chaos and comedy combined.

Awareness is pain,

she knows, when he’s found a new lover,

he used to love her and it shows

there’s nothing left, if he’ll let her go,

with something akin to pity or hatred mixed with shame

she’s found a place in the city, and he’s found a bit of fame.

© 2010 C. Harter Amos