What I Am to You

Your green signs with

bright white directive letters,

your haloed highway lamps glowing

like welcoming angels at their posts.

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Can I be your destination?

Can I be your home?

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I entreat you,

“Tell me something.”

(Please tell me how much I mean to you.)

But, those talkative hands and tender lips

evade the verbal dialogue I longed for tonight.

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All I wish you could say—

and you looked so intently

upon me Friday evening but didn’t speak—

I, your beautiful naked truth;

your complaining poetess, your open book.

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Can I be your definition of worth?

Can I be earthly and divine?

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Your last kiss in the doorway,

your headlights flickering—

these are your last valuable remarks.

I stand, no matter what I am, yours as you drive away.