INTERROGATION DH Winter 85
He's not my type.
Bashfully, I admit to you.
What is your type?
Bluntly, you ask.
Oh, I don't know.
I gaze evasively,
at the ceiling, at nothing.
I don't tell you
what it is that I want:
Someone to walk with me on a snowy day --
we can break icicles off
the neighbor's front porch
and point to the pond
just down the road
winter-frozen.
We can use them as cold pens
for writing in the snow.
I would outline your rosy red cheeks
with my cold pen
I would write our names in the snow.
"good"
