Folded pieces of paper tucked into books can reveal themselves decades later. In this case, a poem by Judith Rodriguez. I liked this poem when I wrote it down some decades ago. I still like it.
talking of people
Talking of people I love
I grope for traits
to dignify and endear them, move
you nearer my place
where it’s a celebration to forgive.
And I always fail. I’m staggered
when I start cads,
bigots, hypocrites, blackguards
with my unwary words.
Phrasing all of anyone’s a hazard;
their music comes so varied
it takes thousands
of listening moods to be married
or related. Vows and
gene-sharing have miscarried
oftener, worse than fetuses.
Though you sometimes purchase
illusion, weeding a field that has
there’s a hardy strain in weaknesses
at least for loving: they’re funny
they last. Classic
folly – perhaps too many
for most – emphatically
disgracing us graces the randy
centuries that, hot after living,
gossip, and our rage for believing.
May I glow gaudy
in the spate of a friend’s forgiving!