by Glen Martin Fitch

I thought I was prepared.
I should have known.
You weren't the first nor
the last to leave.
I'm bitter,
I can't believe
you won't return.
It hurts to be alone.
Again come all the stinging questions,
I've often curse your picture
right out loud.
I thought I saw you once
lost in a crowd.
I've called your name at night
with no reply.
No touch,
no call,
no note,
no sign from you.
It's so unkind,
so painful,
so unfair.
How can you hurt me
when you know I care?
But someday
I'll slip out an exit too.
By this no loss of love
should be construed:
It's just it seems to me
the dead are rude.


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 23, 2011