By Roberta Curley
To me, you’re no old mare
yet a platinum sheen dapples your hair
your every breath reflects a savoir faire
accenting your mojo extraordinaire
if I could pinch a beauteous lock rare
from your tender head—I swear
I’d hug it to my heart in prayer
that your debonair flair we might share
I have a gargantuan wish
to make you my solo dish
and though I savor wolfing down a knish
I’d much rather catch your pitch
some may think me not too bright
but I would lurch straight through night
without hint or glint of light
simply to bask in your sight
flashbacks of your touch
titillate oh so much
and though we often go dutch
I’d boil the ocean to access your clutch
I’m sick of geriatric jokes
and wiseacres calling us old folks
I term them empty-headed cowpokes
soon to be entrapped in selfsame hoax
for sure, our allure is the real thing
not just a Highland fling
you clang my bells ring-a-ding-ling
fashion me your puppet on a string!
I’m sick of geriatric jokes too. My hat’s off to Ms Curley. A nutritious delight!
mona lisa – thank you for fighting for those of us who are gnawing at the bones of youth – – but can’t find our readers in order to savor them. (never been accused of being ‘nutritious’ )– thank YOU! roberta