She Has Not Come

She has not come,
I said, and will not come.
So I will arrange my evening
as befits my disappointment and
her absence.

I put out the flame of her candles,
and turned on the electric light.
I drank her glass of wine
and smashed it.

I changed the sound of frenetic violins
to ocarina songs.
I said, She will not come.
I will loosen my smart tie (that’s much better)
and put on blue pajamas.

I will walk barefoot if I want.
I will squat down at my ease on her sofa
and forget her, and forget everything that is not here.
I returned all the things that I got out for our party
to their drawers.

I opened all my windows and curtains.
No secrets in my body as I face the night,
except what I had expected and lost.
I laughed at the way
I freshened the air for her, like a fool.
(I used a rosewater and lemon spray.)

She will not come.

I will move her orchid plant
from right to left
to punish her for her forgetfulness.

I covered up the looking glass on the wall
with a coat, so as not to see
the radiance of her picture and regret it.
I said: I better forget what I quoted for her
from the old Vredeburg, because
she does not deserve a poem,
not even one that has been pirated.

I have forgotten her,
eaten a quick meal while standing,
and I have read a chapter
of a school book about remote stars.
And I wrote,
so as to forget her offense,
a poem. This poem!