Lordy, Lordy, I can't believe I heard
you dredge up that old line last night.
So, did it work? Never mind.
I'd hate to hear an almost matron,
almost popping her bustier, bit
that chestnut. Time flies, my ass.
When Quintus said it, I don't know, maybe
it already had a Bronze Age
sheen to it, Buck. Antique rose
petals fell for Herrick to gather,
and the cartwheels creaked Marvell heard.
And this mother of three swooned?
Well, we can understand, old thing--the flat,
bubbleless glass of warm champers,
and the wilting gray canape,
and the laddered hose. Women despair
for less, have fallen far further
than you, Buck, on a bad night.
And maybe you were right, Quintus no fool,
and the lady's sensors wide
and wise to pull in the last
cupidous excitement she'd ever
glom on to, even in the arms
of an old anthology.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
from These Denver Odes