Over the weekend my daughters and I went into an antiques store. While they looked at dated dolls, I picked up a crusty orange-bound, red-spined book. I'm always picking up books. Something about this one, as with so many, just caught my eye.
I flipped to its center, and this was what I read. It's simply titled SEVEN, for it's the seventh entry.
You can't do more when crossing streets
with mannequins in windows looking back.
I try to match your step--
that way I'm sure of staying close.
You smell like love.
That must be so
for what I smell is dear to me and new.
And so a little walk through town
becomes a journey
a love vacation from ourselves
but with ourselves.
Everything you say is funny
Sometimes I forget that old material can be so current. That something written decades ago can touch me today. Until there it is in front of me.
In this poem I recognize something I've never had, but I also (hopelessly, romantically) read my future.
So I bought the book.
LISTEN TO THE WARM by Rod McKuen , copyright 1967.