Still in the early stages. Not yet settled poetry.
Is love the drunkenness of undergraduates
Or the sober labours of the bricklayer?
Is it the Hollywood starlet on her fling
Or an eightyish couple strolling hand-in-hand?
Romantic swoonings, transports of longing:
Are these things love more than the soup-kitchen,
The worn-out nurse helping a cranky patient,
A kindness to the Harvard Square panhandler?
Love isn't a glass of Malbec or a pretty face
Or California beaches or mountain peaks.
Love is Wednesday morning on the Red Line
Headed to work. Love is the doctor spending
Forty years working at a free clinic.
Against the strident cult of denunciation,
Love is an undiminished equipoise
That greets the world with a healed and healing voice.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 52 times
Written on 2018-09-29 at 02:33
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