TROUBADOUR

She was the princess worshipped from afar,
the actual original. Her life
mostly all statecraft. An assassin's knife
had killed her husband, so she went to war

as women could, with promises and smiles
that bought alliances. She died in bed
at fifty-something. We don't know she read
One line of Rudel's verse. A thousand miles

he travelled, dying, just to see her face
one time. Perhaps he did, maybe she wept.
It was expected of her, but she slept
soundly that night. And now there is no trace

of any line he wrote for her. The past
gives little hope that words of love will last.

LEAVING

So hard to leave. Cliches turn new again
in your last week. The sky's a smoky grey,
rain's pearl. Leaves crackle. You don't want to stay,
or split. Hot summer felt like the disdain

of the whole city, now it lets you part
as if reluctant, tugs with autumn strings
that fall fade echo. You have packed your things
in boxes. It is clear that from the start

it did not work between you. There's a train
clattering beneath you. You won't feel content
back home. You gave your heart, paid it as rent
deposit you will not get back again.

Yet worthy of the city you will try
leave it with love, spit in its heartless eye.