If she’s a good girl,/
can I no longer send her/
bad poems I wrote her?
OR
bad poems which she mused?
She sent me
A selfie.
I gasped,
struggling hard to grasp
the beauty
of the vision laid before me.
Skin gold with Rembrandt’s light.
Mona Lisa’s smile sly with delight.
Flowing Botticelli Venus tangled hair.
Picasso’s Laughing Eyes sparkling stare.
Colors, shapes, forms and hues
Glowing, curving, warm, subdued.
A creative, introspective self-portrait.
(Nobody would expect that I’d see that.)
From the mature topic picture I was sent,
T’was not to the profane, but the artistic my mind went.
How do I wish her/
a fond Bon Voyage! when she/
won’t let us visit?
When she calls me/
“Loverboy”,/
but she doesn’t call me/
for hours
and days
and weeks
and months on end,
isn’t she/
just making/
a mockery/
of me?
When I gazed into her eyes/
I sighed,/
and was bereft/
and denied/
the chance/
to further dance/
and twirl/
and give the birthday girl/
her daughter’s window scraper.
I did send you a/
picture of my heart. That’s art./
But you don’t like it.
She is, still, always/
the dream I have in mind when/
I imagine it.
What if she is not/
ambivalent? What if she/
is just scared? Like me?