Love poems hide along the road.
They wait for you or maybe for
the next who passes. Not for me.
They hide and hidden remain and I
do not bother to look any more.
Once, the poems darted out
into traffic, barking. They
did not know that I would pay
them no attention. They did not know
that I would drive on, not caring
when they fell beneath my wheels.
Now, the poems have learned, and hide.
They hide along the road, and wait.
Stephen Brooke ©2014