I distinguished between story poems and autobiographical poems here. The small sonnet that follows is from 1969.
Perhaps Surprise Would Please Her More
The house is old, and grey, and tall.
Her room is on the upper floor.
He starts to ring, but, after all,
Perhaps surprise would please her more.
His feet raise little clouds of dust,
As he ascends to where she lives.
That pleasant aching must be just
The satisfaction drama gives.
He starts to knock, but then, before,
He listens closely to the door.
Laughter. Voices unaware.
The crispy creaking of a bed.
Softly, he descends the stair,
And for a moment, turns his head.
A blog about all the arts, including politics
"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner