Frantic Antics

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!