photo by Ben Hershey for Unsplash, used with permission
As a jock he’s overrated. He’s insipid and a bore. He dishes out the dirt on all his dates that’s mainly lore. By their choice a second date is rarely in the works. They have their radar out for all such predatory jerks. On the field he’s second rate at passing and advancing. But those skills are stellar when compared to his romancing!
This park is overrated. It is not my zone of choice. One cannot be heard here unless you raise your voice. The signs are not well-written. They’re curt and brash and rude. One gets pebbles in one’s shoes when fashionably shoed. Little dogs are walked here that irritate my nose, and I don’t approve of the scanty jogging clothes. If the Queen were walking here, I think she would be shocked, for not one single passer-by is stockinged, gloved and frocked! All-in-all, a walk here is not what it once was.
I only visit here because the ice cream vendor does!
There’s a scintilla of a chance that I might still be kissed.
His arm around my shoulder, his hand gripping my wrist.
If it were to happen, I just might not take flight,
but claim that kiss with open lips, as though it were my right.
Just in case, I think I might just start on a new diet
so if the chance arises, I will have the nerve to try it.
We reached Corfu this morning and are now 8 hours ahead of my usual Central Standard Time in Mexico. This can wreak havoc with both maintaining contact with friends back home, sleep and appetite. This morning as I ate breakfast at what would have been midnight back home, I wrote a poem that had nothing to do with this subject. Unfortunately, I unthinkingly ripped it up and threw it away later after I used the same paper to record our scores for a dice game, so here is a substitute on the subject of what big time changes do to the psyche as well as the appetite.
I’m in trouble with reason. My time’s taken flight. I don’t know the difference between day and night.
My head can accept we’re eight hours ahead,
though my body prefers to stay longer abed.
The diet they serve us now we’ve reached Corfu agitates me with a troubling snafu.
When it’s breakfast time here, I am taken aback,
for my palate’s desirous of a midnight snack.
Time’s not in contention. I know I am wrong.
As they change the time, I should go along.
All day, it’s my stomach that keeps on resisting.
Shrimp cocktail? I’d rather they desist insisting.
Whatever they’re serving is not what I wish.
I’m ready for pancakes. They want to serve fish.
The meal I desire is not what they’re makin’. They want to serve lobster when I prefer bacon.
I truly like visiting different places,
seeing strange sites and different faces.
Yet, I may give up traveling merely because
they cannot keep time the way that it was!
In the hierarchy of buffets, spaghetti is the king
no matter what competing dishes they may bring
to grace the laden, groaning boards: rich soups and shrimp and cheeses.
They advocate for salads, but somehow no Caesar pleases
half as much as pasta, well-laden with rich sauce:
ground beef, basil and parmesan, tinged with just a toss
of fennel and oregano. It simply has no peer.
We gobble it with cabernet, chianti or a beer.
We leave the smorgasbord serene, replete and full and sated.
Our emptiness has been fulfilled, our appetites abated.
No hunger pangs outlast thin noodles topped with smashed tomatoes.
Spaghetti beats out hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes.
It beats out cured Virginia ham. It beats filet mignon.
It beats twice-baked potatoes and things put thereupon.
I’m sorely tempted by ice cream and pastries, cookies, tarts,
but such things aren’t exclusive of main courses that are starts.
A plate piled with spaghetti deserves a proper ending.
Just plan when loading up your plate. Dessert is also pending!
photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash, with permission
Her endless tries to civilize her wild Wyoming grin and the crooked chipped-off tooth that resided within did nothing to dispel its authentic cowgirl charm or its endless talent in working to disarm any reticent cowboy who thought he would resist it then ended up admitting that he wished that he had kissed it. So when at last those lips were kissed, alas it was no drover, but instead a city boy who won our wild girl over.
And, because they took no chance in winning her affection,
it was in fact the cowboys at fault for her defection.
The grass is always greener in another town or state.
Perhaps being a newbie she can start with a clean slate.
She’ll improve her deportment and for sure she will begin
to dress much more sedately. She’ll be neat as a pin.
She’ll insure her own wellbeing by befriending saner folk.
No more life of the party. No more a standing joke.
The other times she pulled up stakes were only practice for
this time, when she swore to them, before she slammed the door,
that she’d make something of herself. They should just wait and see.
This time she’d fall much farther from the family tree.
We hope that she is right and that she doesn’t change her mind
And ask along the self she keeps trying to leave behind.