However...(Poetry)

I sent you all my poems —
enough to fill a sack —
if they’d been homing pigeons
they would’ve flown right back.

Instead, those scraps of paper
pile somewhere — gather dust.
Words wrought like fancy iron
slow-fade — succumb to rust.

No echo of an answer
your silence settles — terse
as any sharp rejection
of foolish nonsense verse.

I’d thought it was romantic
but, in retrospect, I guess
your failure to reciprocate
informs me nonetheless.