I Am At the Gate! poem by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art
I am at the gate!
It seems that you are late.
How long must I be in wait?
I am at the gate!
No one is here that I recognize
only people whom I despise.
I am at the gate!
Please don’t make me wait.
I am not a saint,
please, let us start over again.
I will ask to meet up with you
that year, that month, that day.
Remember you always wanted to play that song,
that music that was so head strong.
I know I said that it didn’t belong,
but what if you had played it then,
would we still have trouble getting along?
I know the thoughts in my head
I did not always share,
because you said that you could not bear
to hear what I wanted to say.
So, I just pretended to be okay
so that we could get along every day.
But that did not happen to us or them
maybe a rose would have helped,
the one with the long stem,
and what about my hem?
Maybe if it had been higher or lower
gosh, whatever you prefer!
But if it wasn’t the hem
then it must have been any other cover
that always had the same rhyme or
meaning no matter what the subject.
I am at the gate
and it is starting to open
I see people walking through
but I can’t find you.
You always said you would meet me here
in this or that place!
Oh! now I see your face!
I am so relieved! That you are here to meet me!
Oh…but you are with another love
who is so high above.
Did you not remember me?
Oh wait,
I see your hand and your glove
raised up like a stop sign.
I didn’t know that you had
been here all of the time,
just in another group
where I can’t be.
Why is it like this for me?
When did you decide
to not be around,
so that I couldn’t hear the sound
of your voice or heart.
When did you decide that you wanted
to be apart?
Not to be of me but of them.
How many pictures can I paint
with that sadness in place,
so that you will understand?
But now seeing you here…
well, I am not trying to stare.
I want to see, to watch, to know
that everything that I had to tow
was always just a section or a category
or a season that had no salt
or a love without a start,
that had no place in history’s great fair.
Why did it take me so long to understand that
it was just a have-to
or a paid vacation for you?
I walked on past
in the opposite direction as fast as I could go.
Oh, but I am going so slow
but I guess you wouldn’t know
or care
about what I thought about your hair
and your air.
How can I get back to the beginning?
I know the beginning is gone and, in the past,
and those days did not last
though I remember them so clearly.
Those people have changed
and we all have gotten older.
I didn’t know that would happen!
Many people mentioned that it would,
but I never believed that it should.
So, when can we drive around again?
And meet up at this or that place?
Who else can I ask…?
Should I get in the back of the line?
At least I will have a place.
Oh, I see you up ahead…
Don’t look back.
Will you ever want to see my face?
By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art