Note

Stepping outside,
I saw a white paper
taped to the seat
of my bicycle.



In a shaky hand,
someone had written
what on first glance
I took to be
a poem. As I stood
reading the three stanzas,
I learned that a person
unknown,
living near me,
apparently
loves me.

I hoped it would be
the red haired girl—
the short red-haired girl
who was in my last show,
who rewrote half the script,
who made the whole
audience think
I am a genius
because her part
seemed so perfectly
natural,
who silenced the stage
as if she owned it,
who flirted backstage though
I gave her no
credit—



The red haired girl
who mysteriously departed
with a kiss on my cheek,
who lives
three minutes away.
When I look
from my window
I sometimes catch
a glimpse
of that curly red hair
bouncing as she walks
down the road
past me
unaware
that I see.

I think,
it couldn’t
have been her.

The handwriting
was less
than aesthetic,
the poem flat,
lost, utterly banal,
and taped hastily
to the seat,
sloppily hanging
by the one strand
of tape to the dark
black cushion
and besides—

She was too good
a writer to be
bothered with drivel,
a love poem from her
would have music,
style anything but banal–
optimistically appropriate,
yes, her handwriting
with the gentle slant
as I remembered it.

In spite of all this
as mentioned above,
I might have been
intrigued
if only you’d spelled
that last word
correctly.