She called his name,
saw him,
nervously entering the door.

He again
hid her gift,
nervously hugged her on the dance floor.

Was he insane?
He’d waited,
after plucking a dozen, wishing there were more.

Tender pink,
blushed white,
yellow, with sweet scent, not manufactured stink.

He’d think
and dream
of giving them as he sang, not screamed.

But then she arrived:
Flower woman
pail with stinky roses more dead than alive,

And the young jive
talker from the bar
bought one with a five.

and tenderly stroked
across her shoulder,
and he felt the old choke

as she spoke
flirting words
and caressed and touched and poked.

They danced,
she and the new man,
and the suitor lost courage, and his chance.

When his song
came, he sang,
sans roses; all romance gone.

And when the new
couple momentarily left,
he did what he had to do.

She never knew
the plans he’d made,
nor how they’d fallen through.

It wasn’t far
to take the dozen
sweet-scented caresses back to his car.

The night became unplanned.
He never told her.
She’d never understand.

She rode away
with the new he.
What could the old one say?

He sat crying
in his car
tormented by the sweet scent of roses dying.

I spend the morning cooing,
trying my hand at wooing!
Awaiting a response;
a smile, a nod, just once

in my direction
a glance;
a mere suggestion
that there’s still a chance

that we’ll sometime soon meet;
perhaps take a Safe seat!
Or a long, languid stroll
down an old, grapefull row.

A chance romance can be found
in a tilled garden, on embattled ground!

Concerts?
Four-star desserts?
I’m much more simple.
to start.
I speak
from the heart,
hold hands
in the dark
of the drive-in movie.

I dance with her slowly;
tell her she’s groovy.
Look at her only.

And then,
if she had fun,
I ask her again
on another one,

Where we might get
Cho-o-late
and sit
and talk.

Later on
would come
the passion
and expensive fun,
after all the deep
groundwork is done!

How long does it take?
How long should one wait?
I have no clue!
Neither do you.

But when it’s due,
it will be known by we two.

Silence you send me.
Not the quiet I yearn for:
Pacific Coast more.

Words woo
Women
Better than
Wine do!

I dreamed I was there,
Watching the sun in your hair.
Gasping as you jogged past;
Staring at your buns, fast!/

I’d watch you
pass
through
a bad sculpture garden,/
as both of us sculpt and harden/
various body parts./
It’s a start!

Instead of staying up
and caterwauling
and denying my busting nut
by not late-night calling,

Why don’t you instead
do what you should:
Go to bed!
Sleep is good!

So, go to your soft, king sized, where
warm exists, if only in part,
because he’s already there,
leaving dutch oven tarts.

And you can breathe deep, and drink
to my memory, and in the stink.