I Ask

by Henry Goldwing

merely this:
that we go for a brief walk
again,
on a city street,
that you let me lightly
touch
the small of
your back, as if
to guide you.

And, as I have done so many times
before, I'll glance
often in your direction, so
filled with you, even
at arm's length
that I put myself in jeopardy
of tripping on the sidewalk,
or walking into a lamppost.

And I'll find your hand for a moment
or two,
then let it go
for the sake
of the passersby. Oh,
but they could tell, they knew,
all of them--

the man with black shoes,
the woman looking off, toward
traffic, the girls in blue
hats,
the old woman and her Pekingese,
all smiled
backwards at us, walked slower, even
the Pekingese,
charmed
by the gifts we so obviously gave
to one another.

© Henry Goldwing, 2003

Henry Goldwing, a native of Saskatoon, tells Writer Online he has been writing poetry for longer than he can remember--most of it love poetry--and that, in his estimation, there are only two things worth writing poetry about--love and despair. He says he may be wrong about that, but it works for him. He is a grandfather, lives with a barn swallow named "Penabscot," and loves the poetry of Esto Banga.