Dry Redhead/Wet Blonde

We both know she isn't her. She could have been.
She almost was, but romance dies with distance
And my home is very far away. The one she almost
Was is there, while we skip down the city's streets,
Relieved to learn that what was once remains. She
Calls me "Country Boy." I make like I will push her
Into traffic if she doesn't stop. We laugh and tease.
The one she isn't deals with me more soberly. We
Eat our fish and chips beside the Sound and hear the
Ships and birds, and feel our one day moving quickly.
In the morning, I'll go home to she who is the one I
Love, though, while I'm in the air, I'll wonder whether
I was wise to choose her over she who isn't her.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 68 times
Written on 2015-07-07 at 00:14

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