Now that I know what love isn’t,

instructed by a history of errors,


I can say for sure

what I’ve long suspected:


that night drive home from Cincinnati

dozens of years ago


(or was is only ten)

meant as much as the whole decade since.


Two lovers: one for a night and one for the long run,

one on wheels and one with an anchor.


It seems unfair that the first would

still drive me to the same conclusion:


that it’s possible for love to float alongside you

separate from the safety of your ship


like an old lifeboat, tethered,

just waiting for you to jump in.



DeMaris Gaunt



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