A good woman passed
this way,
sweet she was, as the apple-
cinnamon aroma
drifting towards my stomach;
I was always filled with her.
A good woman walked
on by,
kind she was, as rumors
that never existed.
She never broke my heart.
A good woman lived once
here – in this very spot
where my feet drop like
lead,
my eyes spill like
oceans,
my arms won’t hold
me up.
A good woman passed my way
once,
keeps bleeding through these verses.
A good woman never dies,
warms me up –
never dies.
11/21/1980
Anne's mediocre poetry 