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there are times when our imaginations   

paint pictures better than sunsets   

play chords more stirring   

than violin strings   

times when hearts beat faster   

sounding panic stilled by its

own clock alarming signals

ringing clipped wings

singular embarrassing 

defining a new way of being

one such time

i was prepared for the best of

   advancing, making progress

     to reach you it   

         would go so well   

            you'd be able to tell   

                how i feel and   

                    you would see

the magic in my tricks the

longing in my

voice the

muse for your amusement

in that alter place of hyper-reality: high school

and

none of the rumors had   

helped my cause, noe of

the phone calls brought you near

(no to the prom two years in a row)

(isn't two years in high school an eternity?)

my projects framed, posed, presented to

bring you flattered flustered and favoring

blissfully to a place we would share

there

(touched by inspiration, moved

by spirit, aching longingly)

i stood in the front of the class:

everyone knew. teacher knew. debra knew.

david, carole, glenn knew. leslie, laurie, barb

knew and

                you knew.

as i read the poems to you

e.e.cummings all pointed all obvious all

wishing (no!) kissing toward you

dramatically framed i saw too late

a mistake, in your derision in your

freeze

oh, the face you made.

you hung your head a little as 

i spoke in verse of hearts and

little voices and dreams and rain and

beggars and visions and

intricate ladies of poet's love, my love 

to you (no, gasp, toward you) i hope for

the best and watch it

fall

and when finished, papers put away

you...you...you...looked right at me.

sharp totally focused sweet beautiful

blue eyes looked right into mine.

with...with...with seething hatred

a pressure point anger overflowing

oh!

all this time your stare stays clear

my worst miss a sting for this

it did not go as planned

if i could only say with the power to erase

i am so...i am so... i am so sorry.

NOTES:

Are all poems true stories? This one is. An artist can think that creativity will save them, raise them, influence others and make all things beautiful but...ah, but that is not always the case. This case was perhaps my first crushing disappointment at trying to reach someone (she knows who she is) thru poetry instead of maybe just initiating a conversation, a walk, a few moments to talk. Why was that so hard to do?

But I try to look at it this way now -- how bad could it have been, it gave you this poem?

-- doug smith