I watched you as a stranger.
Looking over the rooftops (Parisian or Roman?)
leaning over the railing so the sunlight
fell onto a three quarter profile for
a vanilla-soaked photograph.
She’s super heady, wild curls,
a romantic simulacrum.
Perhaps she’s a baroque spiky head–
the other girl–the one that’s
In that other rabbit hole, there’s a
dinner party, and Alice had gabbled
on and on. Truth? She argued with him
at the Colosseum, as if falling apart.
In her defence, I’d say she’s not quite
as precocious as she had thought;
and that in her later resurrection,
she became less strident, had tried to
retrieve some trace of the gabbling
where the seeds were, in a memoir
that says, love never gets old.
Prompt: I dare say this is about the time you’d be skipping a heartbeat. Why? Because you’re just trudging along with a mysterious sack of poems that’s waiting to be written, and you cannot get ahead of yourself because you need to wait for the day’s prompt. Then when the prompt’s unveiled, it’s either love at first read or, well, you react lackadaisically: to hell with it. I don’t like form prompts very much, thank you. Anyway, it can’t be that bad if you’re still reading, and writing. All that preamble is sort of a defense against giving up. The Writers Digest Day 11 Prompt is to write a defensive poem.