Notes to Myself

I sheltered my self-pity behind the door

Where I hid my belief that if only she really

Knew how sincerely I felt about her

She could come to love me. Meanwhile,

I found out that she had played the oboe.

At the time, I hoped to marry her, then

Abandoned, I tried to keep the pain alive

By feeding my memories every morning

As I brushed my teeth, ate cold cereal.

Much later, I began to notice oboes

In odd music. That old song by the Chiffons: 

“Sweet Talking Guy” has an oboe solo

In its bridge, must be in a minor key, because

It sounds mournful. I used to think of oboes

Only as Prokofiev’s duck. Now I realize

How evocative of sorrow they can be.

She gave me a gift in a few seconds

Of conversation, wrapped painfully, so

That it was only long after that I opened

That I realized it was a most beautiful thing.