no poet

No poet
who saw the poor widow
down the street
Ever offered her candy

Or roses
from his balcony

this poor widow,
You see,
was not really a widow

She wore long black stockings
Her method was severe

He smelled of milk
milk from his daughter's breakfast
milk that had spilled
from her blue cereal bowl
she thought of him as through this haze of milk

Her method was severe to
hide the beating of her heart
which stopped frequently
when she saw him
walking past with his daughter


She cobbled together a life
from Bette Davis films
flowers from the grocery store
a bag of candy
a collection of dolls
for his daughter

but no poet ever offered
her his heart