She stood/
on the verge/
of opening./
Facing the great chasm/
and depths of life,/
she clung to him/
who explained/
everything./
As she leaned forward/
to leap/
into the abyss,/
hoping a net would appear,/
feeling secure/
that he would not let her/
fall,/
he took a phone call./
So she, feeling spurned,/
turned/
and ran,/
again,/
back to her safe place,/
and put back on her bland face,/
and hid.
She erased it,
(that photo she took)
and replaced it
with one of her reading a book.
That’s ’cause she’s the Marion
who always claims she’s shy.
Beneath her veneer, she’s contrarian.
She doesn’t know why,
this somewhat naughty librarian.
If you want to look
she’ll hide her face in a book.
But hidden between Jane Austen’s leaves
are Tom Jones, and Greensleeves.
Though she’s gone libarian through life,
she’s been, underneath, really the Wife
of Bath.
(That will make her laugh).
But, unlike gap-toothed Alison,
this pilgrim would’ve settled for one.
Sometimes she’s awake/
at 2 a.m.. I wonder:/
Should I call her then?
She may decide: “No.”/
I may go down in flames, but/
I will be on fire.
Or
She may shoot me down in flames./
I’ll still be on fire.
How fun! I’m jealous/
of grandkids, pool and sun, but/
mostly the puppy.
When she doesn’t look,/
I know that means she’s “busy”,/
or she doesn’t care.
Women worship strength, /
love and caring before they/
kneel at obelisks.
I wrote a haiku/
about you. Then you wrote, so/
it must go. Thank you.
She suddenly and/
completely would vanish, and/
I never knew why.
“Do you date?” she asked./
Like a beaver dam breaking,/
“Yes!” let her move on.