Reflections on a special relationship

You appear at the door.

Your brown eyes meet mine.

I might hug you once more,

but you often decline.

You look me all over -

hair, dress, shoes submit

to the search of my rover,

“Is this good, does that fit?”

You comb through my clothes

to find something bright -

some silky pants – some hose

- a blouse that's just right.

Have you washed yourself thoroughly?

Are all the doors locked?

(He checks the stove worriedly).

Is there something you forgot?

Now triple-check the door

and whose car shall we take?

Have you money galore?

Try to stay wide awake!

I ask,”Where are we going?

What will we do?”

These questions are annoying,

so I stay silent too.

He says, “Why don't you talk to me?

Why don't you ask me questions?

Don't you want me to be free?

Your disinterest brings reservations.”

“Why do you always. . ?

Why don't you ever. . .?

No one behaves like you.

If you were someone else, I would never . .”

I'm uptight.

Nothing's right.

I'm not O.K.

He's not O.K.

Silence, pain, anger, despair.

What really happened?

Does anyone care?

Janet Spiller

September 13^th, 1975

Cher Papa . . . a note with a “pressie”

It's been quite a while

since I wrote a rhyme.

I can only smile

at the topic this time.

These socks are for you.

I give you three.

Some tissue too.

(I got that free!)

Red, black and tan

to meet most needs

of an Englishman

who does good deeds.

Red is for racy,

the times you zoom out

and do something crazy

and give a great shout!

“Here I am world

I'm not dead yet.

My spirit's unfurled

and I'm out to get.”

Tan is so quiet,

a ho-hum shade.

It won't cause a riot,

nor woo a young maid.

Black is quite formal

and denotes an occasion

like going to church,

or fiddling an Asian.

And so these great socks

were meant just for you

to enjoy “on the rocks”

and make dreams come true.

Love you, Janet, 1960