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To Richard
by Fran Michelony
My father saw potential in the young boys
Who worked for him. He sent one, a handsome lad
To take me to the dance. I could have kissed him.
I thrilled to dance. To dance with him was thrilling.
But then, you came and, evidently pleased with me,
And shy, I left your brother for your homely face.
You brought me ripe, sweet strawberries from your farm.
Then, suddenly, we were at war. You wrote to me.
“Keep smiling,” you said. It was so simple. I smiled.
Then I, too, went to war; but it was not war really
Until I saw you, battle worn, hospitalized, still smiling.
Time passed and you were at my door, gifts in hand
Awkward still, and shy. We kissed and kissed again.
But you never, ever, said you loved me.
Richard, we kissed. I sent you away, wondering.
Where did you go? What should I have known?
To Sherry
by Fran Michelony
You had doe eyes and a voice like Orson Welles.
How could I resist you?
You wrote me poetry like no poetry I had seen.
You spoke, “Moonlight becomes you,” like the song
And you introduced me to your parents
Those lovely people, erudite but poor.
And on Christmas Eve, you whispered we should wed.
I answered Yes not wanting to spoil the moment.
But I could not marry you.
You were an artist. I was not profound.
You were a flame. I could not be your moth.
I said goodbye, lightly, and wished you well.
You died at forty-nine. My sister sent me
Sweet poems she had forgotten. You’d sent them.
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