Love is Lonely

To Which

To Which
Rate this poem

You seize upon the occasion

to make an observation

even more pompous than usual

to which I make a

pointed little reply

you look at me, smile,

tilt your head to one side,

then, after considerable pause,

with ironic descent to vulgarity,

observe tartly, “Kiss my ass!”

my face flickers a smile

I look at anything, anyone but you,

shuffle my feet a little,


then reply with

a certain savoir faire,

“All things in their time and place,

my dear….”

to which we join hands

and squeeze….