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Dove

 
Rita Dove
b. 1952

 
"Golden Oldie"

 

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go? a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.

© Rita Dove
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