Love Poem

He wants me to write a love poem,
and, being old,
I think back to how it used to be
when we were young
and loved each other
without knowing it
over cans of tomato soup
and takeout eggrolls.

How our wool coats smelled
like mothballs and garlic
the winter we lived
in the damp apartment
above Pizza King.

And how the back
of his neck smelled
in the newlywed mornings
when we didn’t,
oh, we didn’t want to wake up.

Copyright Kay Winter

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