I bend a paperclip into a lop-sided heart, wishing
to have the means to present you with more
than just a metal caricature of an organ
that has nothing to do with emotions.
Were I a wealthy lady, free to bestow
material affections to young beauties
like you, I would purchase your heart’s
desires, hoping to become on of those wants.
A mint-colored couch and a lamp made of seashells,
five chickens, a new bag of cat food, an empty jar
filled with imaginary peanut butter, a CB radio,
whispers and kisses in the dark, a map of Egypt,
a plate of fingersandwiches, guitar strings,
a photo frame with three sections, books
of Romantic poetry and pictures of New York City,
a playbill from a show you’ve never seen,
and a blank notebook are gifts I want to shower
you with, like hot water upon your skin.
Yet only a ghost’s murmur of heat, hope, love
can make it’s way from my heart to your being.