I was looking through a poetry file for something else this morning when I came across this: a poem I wrote during the early days of dating the man I would eventually marry. I’d forgotten about this one. Now, after having been married to Michael for nearly 24 years, I can barely remember ever feeling so insecure about our relationship. For some reason, this sweet relic of our past really cheered me up.
When I come back from lunch
(where I’ve smiled and talked of you)
I rest my hand upon the telephone
wondering, as I do each week,
if librarians ever take flirtatious phone calls.
Or would it make you blush before an ancient
white-haired woman who needs your help deciding
between Jane Eyre and Ben Hur?
By Tuesday I no longer feel
your warming arms around me—
four more days to crawl through
before you hold me once again.
I’d only have to call you,
hear your voice across the wire,
for the memory of your kisses to return,
but I will not dial
for fear of a white-hair woman.