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 I am old, with/
the end in sight, I hope I’m/
cool like Betty White!
Was it worth it?
Oh yeah!
Most definitely!
OR
I washed my car/
on a cloudy Friday/
and went to the beach,
down a muddy road,
on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
Was it worth it?/
Oh yeah!
Most definitely.
I can’t remember
why I stepped/
onto the ice
and snow,
then
into the gently flowing
melted
river.
Was it to prove
that I could do it?
Was it a memory
of polar bear dips past?
Was it a beach,
and I’s just gotsta?
Or was it just/
to experience the shock
of being able/
to feel
again?