Loving Emily I went to her house. You were lounged on her couch in a jacket I didn’t know you owned, feet up on her shabby table, reading in silence. I said let’s call Emily , swing by her man’s house and all meet for dinner . You said something I don’t recall, and I went for the phone. On the floor, four perfect stapled pages, lined like your beloved yellow pads. The heading said: “The Week of Loving Emily” Four pages of poems I didn’t know, sent off to journals obscure to me, the last two to the army. I knew Emily’s man, a caber tossing roughneck of a bloke, did not write these. I knew they were yours. Emily answered quite chirpy, got less and less so as she explained that no, it would not be a good idea, her man was playing music with friends, did not want company — I was sad, got more and more down as she spoke. I knew you were not coming home with me. Emily had a Scottish accent, you did as well. I just lef...
Like the title says.