by Timothy Robbins
I wish my sympathy for her grew as
easily as the most inspired cancer. Or
if that is harsh, like dandelions, not
orchids. Let it have the orchid’s
look of an alien intelligence. Let it be
as single as an orchid in its small pot.
But give it a knack for thriving in
material as self-centered as my needs.
When she fumbles and drops words,
melons and basic political thoughts,
catch them as a wise lady-in-waiting
catches the French queen’s glass-like
dauphin. When I think of the times
I scolded her as though she were my
whipping boy, not my first home, I
shake like a devil in the witness box.
Timothy Robbins is from Indiana. He has a B.A. in French and an M.A. in applied linguistics from Indiana University and has been teaching English as a second language since 1991. He has been publishing poetry since 1980. He has a longstanding relationship with Hanging Loose and has published seven collections of poetry, the most recent being Sticks. He and his husband have been together since 1998. They live in Wisconsin.