This was once a love poem，

    before its haunches thickened， its breath grew short，

    before it found itself sitting，

    perplexed¹ and a little embarrassed，

    on the fender of a parked car，

    while many people passed by without turning their heads.

    It remembers itself dressing² as if for a great engagement.

    It remembers choosing these shoes，this scarf or tie.

    Once， it drank beer for breakfast，drifted its feet

    in a river side by side with the feet of another.

    Once it pretended shyness， then grew truly shy，

    dropping its head so the fair would fall forward，

    so the eyes would not be seen.

    IT spoke³ with passion of history， of art.

    It was lovely then， this poem.

    Under its chin， no fold of skin softened⁴.

    Behind the knees， no pad of yellow fat.

    What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.

    An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows⁵， its cheeks.

    The longing⁶ has not diminished.

    Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat，

    the cultivation⁷ of African violets or flowering cactus⁸.

    Yes， it decides：

    Many miniature cacti⁹， in blue and red painted pots.

    When it finds itself disquieted¹⁰

    by the pure and unfamiliar¹¹ silence of its new life，

    it will touch them—one， then another

    with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.