My Lost Valentine

damned postman,
driving his little truck
from box to box,
carrying news of sorrow,
songs of love,
and word of broken luck;
his freight is the hand
and my forlorn little box
is the glove;
I know he has missed
the message that I know
you sent to me,
a while ago, and
sealed it with a kiss;
he'll find it later, I guess,
while my heart sails
over the equator,
looking for all the rest
of your messages,
out there, in trails,
on their way to me,
to make my heart
skip a beat,
to make me feel like
you are holding me closely.

February 11, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

No comments:

Post a Comment