He’s economically trustworthy, but has a humdrum mind. He’ll never write a sonnet, for he’s more the right-brain kind. He’ll never sculpt a fountain or create a work of art, but he’s brilliant at accounting, numerically smart. So he won’t paint your masterpiece, but if you ever spy it, if he’s the one you married, you can bet that he can buy it!!
Under the star-spangled night I espy a woman in love and her regular guy. He has resolved it’s the night to propose, and safe in his pocket’s the ring that he chose, but her physical closeness so comfortably huddled close up to his side has him slightly befuddled. What if he was swindled and the diamond’s not real? It was such a big stone and such a good deal!
He fingers the box and tries to decide how best to convince this girl at his side to accept his offer to become his bride. He swears to the heavens, so splendid and wide that he’ll do his best to furnish a life befitting the one that he makes his wife. Then his nervousness done, he falls on one knee, to turn his whole life from “I” into “We.”
The busy restaurant suddenly as silent as a tomb— my “No” resounding clearly all across the room. It was this blunt refusal that brought him to his knees, begging my forgiveness and finally saying “Please!” Tenderness exuding from his every word, he repeated his offer in a manner less absurd. His sangfroid left behind him, he presented me the ring with proper reverence as though it was a sacred thing. It was a better proposal than the first one he had pitched when he tossed the ring box at me and said, “Wanna get hitched?”
One ray makes an incision through a layer of cloud to land like a stream of gold upon my outstretched hand. It is no illusion that its trail of liquid gold winds around my finger. It’s a beauty to behold.
All my life, it’s true I’ve not belonged to anyone, but now it is official. I am married to the sun.
Why else would just one sun ray make the decision to linger
of all the places in the world, only upon my finger?
I am applying, here on bent knee, for you to grant a franchise to me to be your beloved—your regular guy. Given that I am awkward and shy, but I am also one jubilant fellow, determined in will though my legs are like Jell-o, who aims to get over his natural bent, in order to voice, to proclaim and to vent that my heart will be steadfast and loving and true
If you will grant me a patent on you!