Poetry (of a sort)
Published in Biographies & Memoirs
Poetry (of a sort)
Her name was Margaret.
I guess that comes as no surprise
to anyone who has ever known a Margaret.
She was standing
outside a bar,
smoking a cigarette,
looking many more than her 18 years
when Vincent wobbled drunkenly by.
"Are you alone?"
"No, my boyfriend
"Wow," said Vincent,
"He must be some kind of an idiot."
"My boyfriend is no idiot,"
she said blowing a smoke ring.
"My boyfriend is 26 years old,
and he could crush you with one hand,
and he's definitely
not an idiot."
There seemed to be nothing
Vincent could say to that
and so he took the opportunity
to say nothing.
It was only about 2 AM and the night still lay ahead.
"But," said Margaret
after a casual puff
on her cigarette,
"why did you say that?"
"Why did I say your boyfriend must be an idiot?"
"Yeah, you know…" she whispered encouragingly.
"Because,” he said,
“if you were my girlfriend,
I wouldn't leave you standing around out here
by yourself, where someone like me
might come along, scoop you up,
and carry you off
where you belong."
(There was no doubt about it,
at 2 AM
under the neon bar-light glow,
Margaret was a beauty.)
You MUST already
know the rest.
(I wish I could think of a more creative way to say that.)
It looked like a good beginning.
I mean, the clean
the sneaking up the squeaky stairs
the rolling sonorous seduction,
recitation by candle-light,
the suppressed giggles of delight
under the blanket,
that he was skilled at something
he had never done before,
which coincided perfectly
with Margaret's discovery
that Vincent had more natural skill
than her 26 year old abandoned
and now almost forgotten
… who was not an idiot.
“Words for this,” she sighed,
can not be found.”
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Thirty-some years ago I wrote seven full-length plays and, even after all these years, I strongly believe that any one of those plays, properly folded, might still make an excellent doorstop.