She sat in the middle-of-a-cornfield,
Up-on-the-Hill ,
Blues bar,
listening,
slow dancing,
sharing that loneliness drink,
(So much better
than drinking alone.)
One wondered how she,
blonde beauty,
could ever be left
weekend alone;
how her kind, caring
intelligence
and deep soul
would not draw someone
smart enough
to be kind and caring,
deeply,
always.
When he learned how she was,
he asked,
because she shouldn’t be
alone
as she was,
and he knew he
could change that
and her.
Because when she says she’s “sort of seeing someone”,
she’s admitting that she’s also kind of not.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 