Love as an Eccentric Nineteenth Century Poetess

My love for you is rather like
Emily Dickinson
late in life
shut up inside with all the doors locked
nobody’s mother
nobody’s wife

It is an agoraphobic
aging poetess
living alone
a neighborhood legend never quite seen
never recognized
never known

At the window always watching
curtains parted
peeking through
to see the faces as they pass
watching people
watching you

Happy to make you a little treat
whether or not
you eat it
happy to write you a heartfelt verse
whether or not
you read it

Happy to see and not be seen
Watching you
In the sun
Happy to live as an unknown eye,
Happy to die
As one.

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