vintage palms
suggest a
British empire hazed morning
a prim ruched bodice
gossamer covered arms
pen held delicately
scribbling a memoir of the raj

five ninety-five price tag
on the back
speaks bargain store

if I remember correctly
though five years have gone by
’twas a valentine’s gift
when I still had a valentine
who celebrated my
writing

I meant to write on the
palm-shaded pages

but our end came before
a single letter was formed
before even the germ of a
literary thought
found its way from
my brain onto the
virgin folio

which now lies unspoiled by
regret or rue
the void a bitter-sweet homage
to dreams unfulfilled