She is so innocent.
So refined.
So sophisticated.
So well versed.
So naive.
She stands,
circulates,
smiling as she always does,
beau on her arm,
boys energized.
I saw her face,
close,
once,
one Christmas season.
Snow fell on her crimson cheeks.
Her red hat
accented her long, blonde locks.
Her boys and mom played pool,
laughed,
drank chocolate milk
in my office
above the drumming crowd.
Then she was introduced,
by a friend,
to Don Juan,
the perfect man
for her perfection.
They are so happy.
She is so in love.
They’ve been together
nearly a year.
He tells the yente,
friend matchmaker,
that he plans on asking her,
soon,
to marry him.
A happy revelation.
Then he reveals
he still sees
previous loves;
slept with them
recently,
as he professed
his perfect love
for his perfect
bride-to-be.
Something is rotten
on the Eastside.
Who should say something?
He?
He won’t.
Lose the perfect woman?
Not a chance!
Matchmaker Yente?
She can’t.
It will hurt both of her friends.
Me?
I barely know her.
I don’t know him.
My words would count
only as jealousy,
envy.
So the clock moves on.
She deserves
so much good.
One can only hope
his bended knee
will help him
keep his pants on.