My love is like a partridge or a squab.
I tried to make that work, but she resisted.
This was a compliment, so I insisted;
But she, it seemed, was something of a snob.
She wanted peacocks. Lord, she wanted tits
With scarlet crests and wings of diamante
To fly ahead and trill of shantih, shantih.
Still I preferred to sing my greatest hits,
Honor roll of the commonplace, the same,
Sparkly in dun. Dressed down. The sure. The daily.
Nothing about me said, I love you gaily.
She flew in neon on a darkling plane.
And so I write to you from this far place,
Who misses most a hypothetic face.
1 comment:
Love the whimsy and the rhyming.
Post a Comment