Can’t Blame Her, Don’t Blame Me

I opened the door,
she stopped
clinched her belongings
while getting in her
defensive stance
like she was going to
have to fight me off.
Can’t blame her,
they don’t meet too many like me anymore

I said,
“Hello. Good Evening.”
She shifted her head down
like she was throwing her body
into another gear,
you could hear the rhythm
of her toes pressing down
and her heels picking up
as she race walked past me
no eye contact
no response.
Can’t blame her,
they don’t meet too many like me anymore

I asked,
“Is this seat taken?”
she flashed her engagement ring
from a ceremony
that never happened with
a boyfriend
she had left so long ago
he was barely a distant memory.

She responded
“I’m married.”

Not that I asked,
all I really wanted to do was
rest my feet.
Can’t blame her,
you have to be careful who you trust
there are a lot of unsavory characters
out there,
and besides
they don’t meet too many like me anymore

We just met
natural connections
based on deep dialogue
and reflections
on life
and what it means
to live in this world

Time flew
to the cha-ching of
light libations
fantastic conversation
kicked over a light melody
under the hypnotizing glow
of the moon

I offered to walk her to her car,
she paused
before grabbing her bags
looking me in the eyes
and saying
“I’m parked just up the street, I’ll be fine”
as she proceeded to walk away

Carrying with her
fear caused by a lifetime of history
with games, and
people trying to take advantage, and
men with ulterior motives
hidden desires
aggressive tendencies, and

Can’t blame her
for wanting to take her chances
with the unseen monsters
of the dark alleys
rather than letting me into her space

I looked like the baggage she was carrying, and
even though the dark alleys had their danger
they weren’t as dangerous as the horrors she
had already come to know

They don’t meet too many like me anymore

I only saw her once more,
in the morning paper
a story of a lady
who never made it to her car

I vaguely remembered her name
but the eyes I saw in the photo
were unmistakable,
they were the eyes of the lady
I had met the night before
the sister I let walk to her car alone
my sister

Now I carry her memories like
gorillas on my back
those eyes,
her eyes
staring into my tortured soul
my emptiness

So don’t blame me
for holding the door open
or speaking
or conversing
or being real
or treating you like a lady
or offering to walk you to your car
or worrying about you

Just know that we all have baggage
and LOVE,
is a lighter load to carry
than the burden of what if
or what I should have done.


About Sean King

Husband, Father, Writer, Philosopher, Humanitarian

Posted on June 24, 2012, in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Society isn’t use to a good person any more. They just don’t know how to treat a good person or what to do with them.

    Great post brother.

  2. A great read. I savored every line. It was like I was there. A tragedy. There should be more men such as the speaker of the poem (I would think you). I am glad that I found one for myself (not that you asked, as your poem had said, but I have a point, I promise), but I believe that women like me are also responsible–we should be more open, more emotionally available, longer, in order to give men the chance and to let them know it’s worth it. I think the extinction of the gentleman and the real and the brother is proportionate to the extinction of the woman who is willing to be there for them and appreciate them. Because men go through hurts and rejections and being taken advantage of too. But in the end, at least in poems like these, they take it upon themselves still to be the stronger one, to be the one who is willing to go another try with a woman who might be worth all the trouble. Thank you for the honor. This poem reminds me of my fiancé, and somehow makes me feel relieved as if I had unwittingly allowed myself to be rescued, and as if I had rescued him too.

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