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Tuesday, March 29, 2011

DASH IT! Second Version, March 2011

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Second Version

Dash it, Baby!
Is this the best we can manage.

Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense,
Reason enough to know which way is up, or down?

Here's the key, there's my desk,
You already have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.

Should you find a spare penny,
Lying anywhere about the house,
Keep it, please, and when you have the opportunity,
Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well.

I take my hat off to you.
Don't be hard on me old girl;
We have had a run of bad luck.
Let's hope that things are bound to get better.

Well, are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Well, haven't I? Who of us is happier?

You take pleasure in your business,
You have your list of details,
All the very many, important things to do,
And now with your father gone,
You have the legal consequence, and its paper work,

Plus the obligation of those little household matters,
Which he once used to do.

You seem enamored with your lengthy driving about.
I sometimes wonder where you go,
How you might disappear for days!

Not a word about your haunts, not a single line,
No Internet connection, you claim.
And when I ask about your goings,
Why the haste?
You answer, "Antique show on Saturday."
Of course I have heard that one before.
When I ask you, where?
You say, “Pennsylvania.”

Oh, how tedious the dialogue becomes.
Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state!
As I press you.
I can see the roll of your thinking plainly in your eyes,
Can you believe it?
Doesn't it look silly
When I write it out in this verse before you
Your answer, “Allentown”?


Years ago I learned the reality --
Buying and selling no easy enterprise.

I know you take every special delight,
And you have the ability for concentration,
At level it requires to be successful at your shopping.

Lord knows, you love a good deal.
I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price,
A markdown or a discount more than you.

Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better
When it comes at half-price.

I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you,
Except, of course, should the airline catch the weight
Of your carry-on and you must pay for the extra kilos.

Then there is the situation with your mother,
(All kinds of complexities there!)
A topic I shall have to postpone,
Perhaps I shall tackle it in another poem, or two.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
I seek company,
The way you combine intelligence, beauty and thrift.
I hope to fill the wee small hours of the morning,
Knowing that you sleep in our bed,
And, that though you travel,
You return and make a home with me.

Forget about it! I shall survive.
No need for undue concern,
Or worry that I am probably the gloomier of us two,
Yet I wonder how you push through the day,
How you manage a smile or roam open and free.

Dash it, Baby!
I am still caught up in the happy bondage;
I wonder if either of us will escape it,
What I have called this thing of ours,
And how your grandfather,
Our dreams of him and his appearance, ties us
To a Destiny, whose inklings, still animates our hearts.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,”

So the old song goes,
While whole, wide-world, deep asleep,
I'd be yours, if only you would stay,
Be in our bed and home with me.

I have difficulty believing that you remain remote.
Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate?
Have you now and forever become unavailable to me?

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