I've written six and a half stanzas of pure drivel.
They don't bushel in quivering golden heads
like corn in spring
or a hundred tiny swimmers with shivering legs.
They're meant to tell you you've done okay
well, in truth they're to tell you happy birthday
but moreover I wrote them to say
that actually you're pretty swell.
I didn't use similes to show your effect,
I could have said you were like a travelling quartet
who visit once a month and make the air thinner
and knit up our insides ready for winter
I did attempt to show what you had taught
that I could be more than others said I ought
to be, that by your own aspirations
I suppose one could say you set me free
now I don't mean
to get ahead of myself
but it's just that I remember vividly
the first time you said
"I want to go and do something useful!
I want to love and aspire to more
than an ok job and a marble kitchen floor"
and my quiet sparrowed brain thought
Why isn't that me?
After I knew you for two more years
The why was gone