Posted by: Ron DuBour | January 4, 2019

๐”ธ โ„™๐•–๐•Ÿ๐•Ÿ๐•ช ๐”ป๐•ฃ๐• ๐•ก๐•ค~by Steve White


 

 

๐”ธ โ„™๐•–๐•Ÿ๐•Ÿ๐•ช ๐”ป๐•ฃ๐• ๐•ก๐•ค

He says three words
That he’d read somewhere that
Women love to hear
They hang in the air
Like a burnt-toast stench
And the musty scent of fear

He reaches out, thinking
To take them back โ€”
An impulse borne of dread
But knowing the seen
Can’t be unseen
So the spoken cannot be unsaid

A sheepish grin now
Crosses his face
As what he’d hoped would be his glory
Turns to red-faced shame
As the look crossing hers
Says, Oh โ€” I’m so very sorry . . .

It hangs in the air
Stuck! in between them,
That devlish, misborn thing
“Like a fart in a ballroom,”
He wryly thinks
As he loses a hopeful wing

“Maybe we can be good friends…!”
“Yes. That’s what I meant!” And thus his flight ends.

ยฉ Stephen F. White, 2 Jan 2019

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