AS I PASSED HER ON THE STREET

My life flashed before me,
as I passed her on the street,
with her sculpted red hair,
and her dove colored skin,
and her soft ember freckles
and her long shapely legs,
and I remembered that there was noone

awaiting me at home
in the moment that my eyes met hers,
and how there was nothing interesting at my job,
and how I had no hope of advancement
or of getting another job,
and of how I had not the spices, nor had I the skill
to make a meal that were truly satisfying;
nor the person to share it with even if I did.

Not from a lack of a woman
but from a lack of my own.

But then I remembered my
long shapely legs
and my slender torso
and my fine sunripe tan
and my sculpted black hair
and then I remembered
my charming light tongue
the sparkle in my eye
and my capitulating intelligence
that made women just want to kiss
me,

and I remembered that in all the
midst of my life
that I was a damn fine catch
and that that redhead
would have been lucky to have had me,
or for even having had the opportunity
to have walked by me on the street,
when our eyes met and had an affair,
and another affair or another twelve
as she and I walked
and passed by each other,
and as she and I walked
and passed by each other on the street.

Copyright Š2005 Ashi Shadow 11/26/05
2:30 AM and I can't sleep; I've got a story in my head and it wants to be a poem. So I clamber out of bed and turn on the light, - much to the annoyance of my lady friend - , and sit about scribbling down a poem.
It's not perfect and needs work, and has some changes from the original, but nonetheless it's not far from the original and I like it. But I wish that my ladyfriend was not the kind person who doesn't want me scrambling out of bed to write down a poem or for showing up late due to stopping to write a poem. What I want is to have the kind of person who would want to hold me together and to hide with me in the midst of the brimming of stars and to understand why I want to write down a poem, even when it means scrambling out of bed or stopping by the road, before that effervescent ether escapes from my head. And I want to have that kind of person. The kind of person that understands that and wants that too. I am late to things all the time. Perhaps 1 out of 20 times it's because of writing down a poem or a song or something like it. Obviously the character in the poem is based "on me," but obviously the character in the poem below is "not me."