Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight
— Thomas Campion
I am after her, a queue to my groin.
I invite her to a swank restaurant,
We each enjoy a sumptuous sirloin
Before she tells me she’s five months pregnant.
A pause. Do I pay for the repast or
Skedaddle into the Townsville foliage?
I ignore the waitress long enough for
Her to know something’s up, there’s no mileage
Left in this date pudding cold in the bowl
And, I confess, a modicum of cad
Contaminates my sense, so I tadpole
My pants – get the gist – and feign to be mad…
Romeo loved Juliet; a wretch
In my silk boxers, lustfully I stretch.
by Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke
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This is part of a series of featured entries in our first-ever poetry contest.
Stay tuned for more and get ready to vote for your favorite!