© Pile of Crock

The crockpot died last night
Right in the middle of making supper
Taking with it our last supper
And all the innuendo that goes with it
 
Remember when I wore
Gigantic glasses decades after Sir
Elton John and passersby stopped
And photographed me believing I was famous
 
What guy doesn’t love that
“Sweet looking ride” and reading books
About the Art of Manliness
And creating an entirely new beast
 
Geeky Yoga dork survives
Humiliates the unbendable
And squeezes them into
A canvas of light and despair
 
Saying you can see right through me
Brought a round of laughter
To the ears of those surrounding us
They knew you were missing much
 
Dancers understand how their art
Is a perpendicular
Expression of that infamous
Horizontal desire
 
Poets fluent in words of love
Guarantee success and happiness
And Promises of marriage
If you move away and wed another
 
You showed me your rose garden
Wishing me to stop and smell them
But you neglected to add
You recently covered them with manure
 
Your past precedes you
I answered when you asked for a date
I never wanted a white knight on a steed
And you never brought a present
 
Life is not a bowl of cherries
The bowl broke and I’m just as wicked as you
When we are buried perhaps they’ll write
There lies a pile of crock
 
Image may contain: 1 person
Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

(photo is not mine and it is not me; all rights belong to the owner: this is Femme)

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