I remember walking
down to the river
in Mystic
coffee, notebook,
pen in hand,
and I would
sit alone on benches
under streetlamps
after dark
and write poems about
the people who
cared nothing for me,
I mean
the ones who meant
the world to me,
especially the one
who told me to see.
See, he said.
But I didn’t
I never did
I still don’t
even know
what he was
talking about.

70/365 – A Poem a Day For a Year