To Helen of Chicago
Feb 4
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A Love Poem
Sing in me, muse
and through me tell the story
of the Girl who can’t possibly know
how She affects others,
each left drunk on an iota
of Her spirit.
And I too am Her apostle
I gape in awe of Her luster
the bright passion-orange of Her Rothko soul.
We all hang in Her orbit
on Her every word
If Her bangs were my household god
I’d pray to them every day.
Of Helen of Chicago,
daughter of Zeus,
a moving grace like Artemis,
tall goddess among women,
But those are Homer’s words, not mine.
I’m Her poet too
I write of Her cold hands
Her light streaming into my senses,
my light streaming back into the air between us.
I can’t wait to know
what goes on in that twisted mind of Hers
I’d recite Her epics for generations.
I am called by Her siren song
vulnerable to Her rocky shore
Untie me from the mast,
I’d fight a hundred Trojan Wars
for just Her kindness.
How Her wit speeds up time
and makes five hours with Her feel
like we just waved hello.
If Zeus heard my pleas
I’d spend a lifetime with Her thoughts
and learn of all things beautiful
or worth knowing in this world.
How could I ever get enough of Her,
for every time Her brilliance
dances around me,
my weary life gets filled
with these teeming verses.
So I’m indebted to this profession
for Her sparkling eyes have lingered
on my simple soul for long enough.
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