Why do I sorta love you? Don’t ask me why.
Was it at the filing cabinet when you said Hi?
Did I jump inside and look for a name?
Find in a folder a certain figure under DAME?
Did it match up with my Mama or Sally next store?
Or something more serious behind a barn door?
Why should I perk up and carry you around?
Start feeling you in every time, place and sound?
Was I back at the cabinet shuffling about?
Taking a peek where you stood out?
Just staring at the sky. A goddess of some sort.
Now out of high school and I’m your wart.
Must be a better theory of mind than this poem.
No roaming cabinet under my dome!
But there you are and we’re married.
Alive and dead and not quite buried.
Why Do I Sorta Love You?
Published in Poetry