A pity/
that thou/
who espou/
ses poetry/
so frequently,/
should not have steal
thfully tread well/
to the well;/
drank deep draughts/
of deep thoughts./
Not
for naught/
would your journey/
be,/
but, instead, you’d see/
me/
through my poetry.
“Do you trust myself?”
She asked.
I laughed.
“In what regard?”
As in, you invite me
over to watch cinema:
comedy, chick flick, drama,
popcorned action, mystery?
That there would be
no butter smeared on that
velvet, gentle skin, as we sat,
and watched the movie.
The only thing low
I would dip into
and slip into
would be a bowl
of buttered
popcorn,
not porn,
or anything like it.
Kernels I would just eat
while I watch,
and butter touch
and brush off my seat.
Do I trust myself?
Whether watching a romantic chick flick,
or Elf,
I keep my emotions,
and buttered hands,
on the shelf.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 