You checked my smile
and style
by reading my profile.
The words I write
might
have kept you there awhile.

And I hoped, when you were through,
you’d have been smiling, too.

The gauntlet was thrown:
a poet sought!
But yet,
invitations of meeting
were deleted with no regret;
they went for naught.

yet again, another time
he casts his bread
upon her swirling waters;
leaves his rhyme
in her head,

and asks:
What is she searching for?
Really?
An intellect to match her own?
With me she’s home.

A writer, witty and bright?
I’m that (if I can avoid being trite).
Six foot oh oh oh
I’m the wrong height for her stilettos.

(Sigh).
Is that the only reason why
I’m not the guy?
(Sigh).

“I Love to laugh, cuddle, kiss, and think.”

I met a woman;
I made her laugh.
The sparkle in her eyes
was on my behalf.

But to win her,
to cuddle, kiss and coo,
I didn’t buy her dinner.
Instead, I choose to woo

her with smiles and deep words!
(It may sound absurd,
but the unknown reality is,
for intelligent women, this:)

A woman is reached, in her soul and heart,
through her brain, more than any other part.

I have a canoe
down by Red Hook Brew-
ery.
Come do
my canoe
with me.

You can sit in the bow.
I’ll show you how
to pluck stuff from the water;
You might see an otter
or two,
from the canoe.

And when we are done,
you’ll think “That was fun!”
“Unusual, too!”
“Cleaning in a canoe!”

We’ll throw the junk away
we collect that day,
when we’re through.
Just me, you,
and our canoe.

“Shalom aleichem!”
“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asked.
The poor Brooklyn JAP.
She didn’t know.
So I should keep it a sod,
a geheimnis?
Of course I told her!

She smiled,
Gave me her apple,
Then started kvetching
About all her Yentas texting
her. They shouldn’t?
Of course they should!

When she kvetches about
the 3 options fisher,
the 40 overweight goy
who disowns not only her but
all her Facebook friends,
and how she can’t find a standup guy.
What, they should be silent?

“Change your standards!”
“Trust the universe!”
“You should be so picky!”
Her Crossing Delancey Yentas opine.
She cups her hand,
air strokes twice,
looks at the ceiling and sighs:
“What, You can’t help me out?”

I laugh, recognizing the stroke sign
from high school Mensch friends.
I work on her apple and watermelon,
Nod understandingly. Tell her:
“Write to Yenta: ‘God Himself rang the doorbell.
I even answered it.
Saw a nothing.’
See what Yenta says.”

She wonders if I should bold
the copy. It works.
The namesake of the first king
of Israel doesn’t pick up stones.
I return the apple;
sling a few gentle
words about tea,
and leave.

She runs down the hall.
Like Fiddler on the Roof.
But this time the JAP
Reaches out to GoyBoy;
lent me a book
by Shalom (Peace) Auslander (foreigner):
“Beware of God.”

Like that should mean something?