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Maypole

David Blake

In the summer you’ll be my maypole
towering over the lawn
as I twist knots of ribbon around your skin
like tiny bows around carelessly folded wrapping paper.

And I left the tv on last night
before I went to bed
in hopes I’d dream of conversations
with people I’ve never met.

And I love each one dearly,
it’s a god awful thing,
the way I think of strangers
days after they’ve forgotten me.

So each time I feel forgotten
like a stray dog in the street
I’ll reach for a bow I tied
and hastily unravel one at a time
to grace upon your skin again
and distract myself from the one I’m in.

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