A Musing Man
I wonder, sometimes, why it is a fact,
a gifted, handsome man should be alone.
My iambic pentameter’s intact,
yet still I tend to lyric on my own.
Alliteration alienates romance.
The ladies scorn my struggle with cliché.
They scoff, then aggravated, wring their hands
because I need to couplet every day.
I’m thinking as I sit beside my date,
“I’ll syllable you soon if I am able.”
At times my meter renders me irate.
It’s difficult to rhythm at the table.
“Another cup?” I search her face for clues.
She looks a little bored. It can’t be me.
I pass the menu for her to peruse.
“Why don’t you try a blended Chinese tea?”
I’m formulating ditties as she speaks.
“I think I’d like to go. I’m rather hot.”
“Do stay. I’ve ordered Brussels sprouts and leeks.”
Her grimace indicates she’d rather not.
I wonder if I’ve aimed a little low.
Her diction leaves a lot to be desired.
I’d like to teach her how to ebb and flow,
but ‘clueless’ leaves me, frankly, uninspired.
She fidgets nervously and looks away.
I wonder if the woman is a freak.
“I hope you’re not illiterate,” I say.
That may have been a little indiscreet.
She’s very irritated, I can tell.
The scowl across her eyes a vital clue.
She slaps my face and wishes me to hell,
then leaves. Now what am I supposed to do?
Oh, woe is me. I’m lost and incomplete.
The woman’s gone and left me full of doubt,
deliberating how a man can eat
a double share of leeks and Brussels sprouts.
I could have blessed her with a monologue.
Enthralled her with the kernel of my quill.
Enchanted her with dazzling dialogue,
if only she’d have stayed to pay the bill.
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