He should have realized that browning leaves,
like love, twirl and fall with no remorse.
He strums on an autumn tune of longing,
translates her blond smiles into bare
desire for more of her quirky
blue-bird voice. His music, her song.
He guesses calling her stupid stifles her song.
Anyone can get lost, right? So she leaves
twists her shoulder, snaps out her proud quirky
voice, “You’re not so smart, either!” Remorse
hangs in the cold air. The sidewalk bare,
like his heart, windswept with stupid longing.
And you might wonder about her longing.
What could she hear in his penniless song?
He was a cute guy to whom she could bare
her soul, and her body. Sticky green leaves
of April, like hope, wave away her remorse,
distracting her from anything of his quirky.
Isn’t getting pregnant a bit quirky?
That, like a missed heartbeat, stops longing.
They hear their own hearts tightening with remorse.
“Love is blind and foolish,” goes the old song.
A gulp of reality. Panicked, she leaves.
His noblest intentions now laid bare.
A little life quietly grows amid the bare
screeching of the El. Drawn downward, her quirky
voice grows silent. Unfurling green leaves
push skyward, like his eyes, longing
for sunny clarity. A whispering song
loops in his head on their way to the doctor. He teeters with remorse.
“You can be back home tonight with no remorse.
Problem solved.” Now their souls are laid bare.
Two hundred fifty dollars kills a song.
As father, he comes to understand he has no rights, a quirky
rule. His lips, like ice, freeze his longing
to scream. Past pale green glass lie budding leaves.
What does he care about their remorse or his quirky
conception? What do they know about his bare longing
for his mother’s lub-dub song? And when in March he leaves?