Poem for Thursday

Golden Oldie
By Rita Dove

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go? -- a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.


I wanted to be the B-52s' "Revolution Earth," or the Beatles' "Revolution," but I suppose this will do:

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What revolution are you?
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