Sunday, October 1, 2017

Poem for Valentine's Day, 2016

My beautiful dear sweet Erin, my wife,
companion for the rest of my life,
we have a really good thing going.
Our marriage, you know, is great!
Because, whenever troubles start showing,
we talk about our feelings, and then,
we kiss, and then, we're friends again.
And sometimes we watch American Idol,
or we go to Trudy's ballet recital,
or we go to the mailbox, and we hold hands,
or we sit side by side on our purple bench
and we discuss dinner. We make plans!
So we drive to Superstition Ranch Market,
in our trusty rusty car, and find a place to park it.
We go inside and buy bell peppers, asparagus,
rhubarb, other food that's healthy for us,
like onions, carrots, apples, potatoes, a pear.
You really know how to poke the peaches, babe!
And we buy honey in a plastic bear,
go home, and put it all in our refrigerator,
so it stays fresh, so we can eat it later.
Actually, the garlic goes in the wicker basket,
but sometimes I forget, so I ask it:
"Erin, where do this garlic go?"
and I stand there, just kind of spacing out,
even though by now I really should know
that the garlic goes in the basket on the table.
Alas, my memory never has been stable.
Yet with everlasting long-suffering you say,
"into the basket the garlic goes, yesterday,
today, tomorrow, and always, my spouse.
But fear not, for you are so dear to me that
even if garlic were misplaced all around the house
by your forgetful hands, I would endure it.
And our pot of marital bliss? I would not stir it."
And putting garlic in the place that's proper,
I deliver my line, a real show-stopper:
"You, my wife, are my heart's only desire,
you're totally completely babe-a-licious, 
and there's nothing more I'd like to acquire
than your red-hot love and admiration.
Hey, how about we go on a vacation?"

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