by Ronald Tobey
Hint of bravado
From New York, your call.
Your daring Indie film,
Praise from all.
I knew without knowing
It was not that.
I laughed, knowing too
The next news,
“I don’t know who the father is.”
You paused then, waiting for reviews.
“I hope it’s you.”
Her third month. My second life.
In the undulating swales of early spring grass,
I search the pink morning for cows and new-born calves
Not far from summer’s glorious day past
Where I laid your sun-drenched ass
While your shouts drifted in the breeze away.