Senora

A Poem by Terryg

Woman, your borough is sure
though you toss acorns from its spire at me.
Are not your kisses all here in Memphis?
Please prep them for inspection.
I'll wait in the street and dance.

I am a love target.

Sweetness, for the dulcet song I sing at you
I get a simper and an apian response
I find confusing.
Perhaps yodeling it again will help with this?
And this time, Bob on kazoo with accompany.

O la la, this is the music my heart makes for thee.

Lady, for the mess you say my boots have made
upon your rhododendrons, please, commit me
to the prison of your love garden, your slammer of bliss.
From there I will send garlands sure to exonerate me.
I am green in your courtroom.

This should account for something.

Honey pie, I had only one fig in my pocket to share
tonight but the heat in this city has not been too kind.
Here it is, though, like love--a disorienting mush.
So come down here.
Bring your hunger.
We shall feast.

Also, hurling things at me would be easier here in the street.

Mistress of love that I am keen on,
you as well as I know
the daylight from the day
and the nighttime from the night.
Yet, ah this knowledge,
together we share, must for now suffice
since morning has brought with it
a rain cloud,
a paperboy,
and a garbage truck.

And I wonder if they worship you as I.