November on Her Way to Winter

-by Deborah (Gottlieb) Garrison

Here we go again,
up the narrow stair
of fall, and I'm full of nerve,

have to have you, I'm looking for you
everywhere.  It's true
I like men too much, and when

I see one in the street
I used to know — starting to be
bald, in a raincoat eight years old,

worry a lit fish swimming across
his face — I could nearly wrap myself
around him, I'm all too ready….

But I'm sorry! It was for you
I meant to do these things, for you
to unbutton my blouse without a care–

Not so difficult, now the sun is tart,
the river the very color of cold,
November on her way to winter.

(I like this poem so much, and I had it posted once before on the old site, but I think it's worth looking at again.)