Where Do You Autumn?

Portland, Oregon

There is a kind of decadence in savoring the sensations

That I’ve been feeling of late about you

A kind of emotional psychic series of perambulations

That awakens some vernal pleasures too.

This winter’s past I thought my heart was dead

That I’d become too ugly to wander into the village

And converse with the townspeople

Bedecked in their colorful plumage

But I think that every winter

And in spring i bloom again

But that sprung hope seemed empty

Until I met you this year.

There was a certain degree of trepidation,

After I first met you, a selfish protection

Of my feelings, which comes from so long

Getting used to being alone and strong.

And perhaps I haven’t yet left that behind

I’m still cagey and uncertain when we talk

And laugh and tell each other stories, oh!

But I’m beginning to live for the stories.

When you aren’t near me, I wonder where you are,

I wonder what you’re saying, how your face looks

When you pose a question or spin a yarn

What grand tale am I missing out on?

I just love the way that you weave together a tale

Something simple or even uninteresting in your life

That you inspire into something living, breathing,

Essential, alive, truthful, amusing, instantaneous.

Do you even know you do this thing to me?

Leave me rapt and affixed on your next word

As you formulate some benign anecdote?

Would you tell me another if I told you?

There is a knowing poetry in your soul

That I can hear when you speak

And I covet it like a greedy hipster

Who’s found the next best thing.

Some inklings of jealousy edge in when I think of you

And how I cannot be invisible, a floating collection

Of sensory organs invisible to the eye, following you

And appraising your every moment here beneath the fundament.

In other words: I am jealous of god, the omniscient,

Not god the omnipotent, who has a lot to answer,

For example: how is it that I’ve only met you now?

Would I not be happier knowing you for years?

But it is those years that forged the woman

With whom I’ve become infatuated,

And I would be loath to deny them to you

Even though they may have brought you strife.

Surely, if you think anything of me

You will understand, in turn,

That I also needed many years

To be a man worthy of your infatuation too.

These years, in dating parlance, baggage,

Are inevitable and unavoidable and essential.

Unlike the sophomoric musings and adages

I know that is what makes you, wonderful you.

I sometimes, often, almost always, regularly,

Ruminate on the thesis that is you as a person.

But I barely know you at all! And yet I muse.

Often on the freeway, or when I am at rest.

And I’ve mused on the freeway before,

As I’m sure you have too about other men.

Ibid. the previously mentioned baggage.

And I invent fantasies of our joyous joining.

But being a man in his mid thirties, wiser,

And considering you have no idea

Of my romantic intent

I push aside…

This is to not make you a “thing” in my mind

Us sensitive writers, flawed, make women

Into tropes, such as the Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Which I don’t want to do to you, not you.

If I have any chance of convincing you to …

Well, one day, at least, love me,

I will need to be very careful and deliberate

Hence my trepidation, my measured speech.

Because that is what you deserve

Not some guy all half-cocked

And inconsiderate of your specialness

But I feel the moment flicker

And thus I must “make a move”

As parlance declares,

But I am shy. Unsure of myself.

Even though I am most sure everywhere else.

Do you even feel an inkling of what I do?

This is what makes me unsure of myself.

I could suffer the pain of not being your lover,

But to be denied your stories, your voice…

Well, you may see the conundrum

That I face everyday that I see you.

Crassly called friend-zoning

By Neanderthals among us.

If only I could reserve a space in the universe

For the both of us, where we could talk forever,

Where I could sequester sexual desire

And we could throw away human need.

I would while away the hours

Like a patient prepared for the table

My face screwed into a rictus of pleasure

Content to throw reality to the side.

I know I’m no prize catch

I’ve a paunch and receding hairline

I’m no world-class lover

My apartment is a horrible mess!

And I feel my only redeeming quality is how I can make you laugh

And I cannot offer you the infinite pleasures of the leisure class

And at times all I can offer is an attentive ear for your stories

And I may struggle to live up to your expectations whatever they may be

But if I can continue to make you laugh

And make you feel like you’re valuable

And to make you feel alive and happy

Like you do for me everyday…

Well, those things I can do for you

And happily, just so I can hear you laugh

And tell long stories about nothing in particular

And to see your pretty face happy to see me.

Now to explain the title of this very poem

A pun on “where do you summer”

Which is a rich person way to ask where

You choose to vacation.

Summer, not being my favorite season,

Not yours either from what I can tell.

Autumn, or fall, being my favorite

Even though symbolically eschatological

Every year I want autumn to last as long as possible

To savor the cool and savory aspects of the season

To feel the earth take a long and relaxing breath

To grow cuddly at home and be at peace with the world.

So: where do you Autumn?