Sweet Sixteen Years
<••>
had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,
2024 - 2008 = 16
yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:
She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)
a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain
that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary
there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink
for the record:
she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five
so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on
which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 7:12 AM UTC
Sweet Sixteen Years
<••>
had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,
2024 - 2008 = 16
yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:
She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)
a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain
that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary
there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink
for the record:
she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five
so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on
which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem
