When she and I awoke on Sundays
we'd forget the world outside.
We'd ignore the bills we could not pay,
dismiss what we had no control.
It was just she and I around an old dinette
that I'd jerry-rigged with duct tape
and placed baseball cards beneath three legs
(that wobbled none-the-less.)
she'd scramble eggs, but look at me
with soft eyes, I could not deny;
for Sunday was our do nothing day
when we drank her orange--mango tea.
Being what it was, what we were,
I promised her the one thing I could,
that on Sundays we would sit
and sip while reciting romantic poetry.
'Til noon we'd read until our hearts
had warmed to our needs
and then we'd crawl back into bed
and practice physical verse.
But somehow it went, the way it went
and I spend my Sundays alone,
writing long poems that no one reads
while drinking orange--mango tea.
In a list
A Shocking Tale Of Horror!
Comments
-
interesting
Sounds like a tale of love had and love lost. Your writing and especially your personal pages are very impressive. extremely well-done
(me, worshipping at your altar) ;-)
-
Ah, you brought it to here! I still own you a package, I didn't forget, actually I have the teas here, but keep eating the chocolates I buy to send together.
I will send all though, this month still
I like this tea poem, you should host a tea contest
Thanks again for writing it
Adding your comment:
