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.
■
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.
■
Today’s sonnet by Rita Dove appears in her 1996 collection Mother Love: Poems.
As a bonus for today, my dear friend Michelle introduced me to a Tele-Poem Hotline established by the Oregon Poet Laureate Anis Mojgani: Just dial (503) 928-7008 to hear a poem! When I called in, the poem was even read by the poet herself. More in the Portland Monthly.