Back into the luggage
I had 2 copies of my latest poetry broadside
out and ready:
4 heartfelt romantic poems
gushing with love for my wife,
nestled among roses on pretty yellow paper.
I wanted more than anything
to give a copy to her
and to her best friend
while we were all comfortably together
on the last night of our vacation
before flying back home in the morning.
I was eager for them to feel
the pulsating sophisticated passion
of my love for her,
eager to see their faces emotionally moved
by the pure poetic artistry
of my sweet sweet words,
anxious for them to acknowledge
that I am the most sensitive, loving,
devotedly romantic man,
and to realize that any woman
would be more than blessed
to have me for their husband.
But, as we sat there softly talking
I realized suddenly with an ashamed shudder
what an enormous horse’s ass I was,
full to overflowing with my own egotistical nothingness.
So I folded the 2 copies
of my pathetically stupid little poetry broadside
and stuffed them neatly back
into my baggage where they belonged.
