She stood,
arms outstretched,
lungs deep breathing,
gasping for air,
to pull back into her
the truths revealed,
that he’d somehow
yanked from her,
opening her up
and examining every
hidden
part,
without her tacit permission. /
And yet she welcomed it,
yearned for the understanding that/
incredible insight gave,
begged to know/
even as she was known,
and understood,
and covered,
and buttoned up,
like a trenchcoat
she’d once wore,
and only she knew
what was underneath,
or wasn’t.
And she wondered/
who/
and how/
and if/
she’d ever let/
someone /
again/
unbutton it/
and her.
And she knew/
that some day,/
some time,/
the London Fog/
would lift, /
and sun /
would shine/
again,
back-back-back-back,
deep in
the center field/
of her heart,
and she’d again/
get to run home.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 