CyranoWriter dancing at the Seattle Space Needle Fountain

The night of the Fire Festival, I danced by the Seattle Space Needle Fountain

I have, vamping, singing
upon my old, white chest
of socks and underwear drawers,
a Barbie doll, large of breast;

Given me long ago, a joke,
for Christmas, to poke,
fun at a request I made for a blonde
in a sexy, slinky black dress. How fun!

But now the Barbie serves
as a sad reminder
of when I’d curve
up from behind her,

and the only low
blow
I came to know
was “NO!”

And the Barbie, still, looks the same.
But my world has changed.

The 80/20 rule
of business, also applies
when speaking of relationships
between people: girls and guys.

Why do I spend 80 percent
of my time on 20 percent of folk
who don’t like me, never will, and
who think my world’s a joke?

And I toss my remaining 20
percent to those who think I’m grand;
To those who really love me!
I don’t quite understand.

From now on, I’m spending most of my time
on those who suppose that Dave is sublime!

Is it rude of me
to comment on what I see?
To discuss the fire
and visual desire
which you, with regularity,
ignite in me?

I wonder: Does she remember me?
That distant Half Moon Bay
woman seen at night; know the day
so long ago, when we

touched ourselves, each other, oh!
So soft, gentle and low?
Does she avoid me? Was it just
that I touched her too much?

Was it in a mere day dream
that I made her scream?
I wonder each time I see her face
which one really was the case.

In my mind I say “Sweet dreams; take care!”
Because I know she’s always there.

(Google-Search for “Love Letters”; You’ll find 300 Love Letters)

My heart trembles;
Your colored patches swirl,
Each a love letter
Written by you stranger, girl.

Some go to unknowns.
Some to friends.
Some to those you go home
To at the day’s end.

I wondered Google-
searching for Love letters,
If there were any more pure;
Any more unfettered.

So young. So strong. So spirited.
So wreckless.

Getting off
the sofa of your youth,
I envy you, yet know
I have finally followed that lead.

“Too Silly”, they’d said.
“Too stupid,” they rehersed.
And so I’d waited for years,
Anxiety getting worse,

Until after half a century
I’d walked to light, from shade,
Away from that she
Who’d always been obeyed.

Away, it seemed to some,
From responsibility!
(No, I’m not that dumb!
I still have mouths to feed!)

But wreckless, myself,
I’ve started writing;
Taken my feelings off the shelf,
To tell what I delight in.

Asia! Your love letters moved
Into my soul and mind!
I wondered who was wooed,
Or wowed; who thought you kind.

Did your quilt of patterned color
Bring you joy?
Bring you a lover?
Or was it just a toy

For you to let your emotions out,
In?
If you had to do it over,
Would Asia write them again?

Would you, faceless she,
Probably less than half of my fifty,
Ever think positively
Of sending a love letter to me?

It doesn’t matter.
Because writing you
this love letter
Makes me feel more better!

It moves away some guilt
That maybe hundreds, thousands?
Have felt
Because they didn’t, with their own hands,
Write Asia a love letter.

The world has 300 Love Letters;
and now that I am done,
for worse, or for better,
you, at least, have one.

(A poem! No less!)
And, now that it’s through,
I must confess,
(although I’ve never met you,)
I feel better.

Love, Dave