Love of a Sunday Afternoon
I'm a likeable guy.
I have numerous friends.
It's my best friend that brings
this twenty-one-year old
blonde beauty over on Sunday afternoons.
He meets these women everywhere,
like they're water.
Although I just want to see him,
and drink soda with him,
and watch football with him,
and listen to music with him,
my best friend of ten years,
from high school,
he insists on bringing over
this entertaining,
lovely young thing.
This is the third Sunday.
I'm a slow learner.
It's the same young lady again.
Am I in love?
Am I not in love?
I have to decide this,
after a while.
He could care less.
Dressed like a gypsy,
but just staid enough
to not look ostentatious.
She works in an office
and lives with her mother.
Matchmakers, we're not,
but there she is.
I am staring at the beads hanging
from her pretty navy blue blouse
and entranced with her perfume,
very sweet-smelling.
My friend repeats himself to
wake me from the trance.
He is not in love.
I check that.
I'm about to decide to become
a little bit tipsy and even
dazed about this young visitor.

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frederic
Poetry
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