If you two decide/
you want a Seattle guide,/
take me for a ride!

I have recycled/
a rhyme once, it’s true./
But I’m much too inspired/
to do that to you.

How late /
is appropriate /
to be texting you/
without vexing you?

To the mom whose child/
dabbed blue paint on her chest: I’d/
buy a new blue dress!

Shit.
I only had to read
one stanza,
one question,
one observation
from her
runningthroughtheparkwonderingwhenherlegsgotsolong
writing
to know
she was barefoot,
and I missed her.

I dreamed of Bella/
in a sun-drenched Villa, but/
then she disapeared.

A series of Haiku, the first sent at 1:06 a.m., followed by two more observations at 8:08 and 8:23 a.m.
I can’t stop thinking/
on an intellect I met./
It must be karma.
————–
Alas, too late did/
I see, no fan was she of/
late night poetry.
——————-
The late-night haiku/
didn’t do for her what I’d/
hoped it would. We’re through.

I never thought I’d be
asking someone out from PT!
It does, after all, seem
to be so far away, so like a dream.

And yet, her profile captivates me,
and her smile blazes like a light on the sea.
So I, interested, read what she wants
and think about dining in her restaurant.

I wonder if she has wireless there,
and if she, as the owner, would ever care
if a writer and consultant came over the waves,
walked in, sat down, and said “Hi. I’m Dave.”

If he proceeded to make himself at home there,
would she be interested? Would she care?

Oh, I know… /
we’ve danced before/
or flirted, /
or something similar,
of that I’m sure…
and now, like a cheesehead /
drawn to frommage,
I must confess to admiring/
your decoutage’ …
and your profile.