A poem I wrote many moons hence....

She

By Derrick Reynolds

“What is real?” she asks
He pines away on his typewriter
“What is desire?” she pleads
He swallows his brandy warm

Kissing her hand…
No, she would deny him surely
Touching her gently there…
No she’s much too fickle

"What is love?!” she cries
He listens teary-eyed, wandering
“What is freedom?!” she shouts
A scene to be

May I have this dance…
No, she’ll refuse most certain
Can I see you home…
No, she needs assurance

“You’re all I have,” he replies
She, turning away
("I long for thee") he sobs
She, asleep between his sheets