what its rules are I do not know, she and me
in this game without a board . . . I keep meaning
to ask, but she won’t polo to my marco,
that lack of echo strains my senses, my sense
of location — not knowing where I stand,
I but dance in shadow hiding from moonlight,
that curious moonlight. perhaps our jazz-like
improv of verse to verse was misunderstood?
some jealous lover? perhaps the flirtation
out of hand, gone too wild too soon and creeping
rush blood antagonized to blush, to flush pale
countenance, and how to say, it was all
in fun but now the fun’s worn off . . . get lost—
how to say that in the most polite voice?
David M Pitchford
5 Nov 2011