i thought he was going to turn up
i thought he was going to be the type of guy to take you out on long drives, in any weather
make jokes about his soon-to-be receding hairline
i thought he was supposed to be the type that sat down by the fireplace
reading stories, face animated, wild gestures,
and a camp range, foraging for firewood, while rainstorms; holding, closing,
we’d be better soaking or dry
looking at the midlands, and the mindless meandering birds
hadn’t it always been this picturesque?
on the mountain, near taking clumsy photographs and quiet confidences,
letting ourselves be too green to ever be dark
i thought i wasn’t built to be denied by my imagination, or whatever else it had in store,
now im doing it unconsciously;
i saw an orthodox man in his starched shirt, his long white beard and black sleeves.
he’s really a well built black man with a week’s worth of scruff on his chin.
i see a young blond haired man riding his bike, smiling,
he’s really an older, more dour man with a mustache, and he isn’t happy.
(i thought he was really the type of guy
i thought he was really my type of guy.)
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry