A rhymed, metred version of a poem I had posted here some time ago, but which I took down because I sent it to a magazine.
Studious Jennifer sat upon her bed,
and took a book of E E Cummings' verse;
cross-legged, barefoot, gentle-voiced, she read
to me, enraptured audience, all hers.
Alexis, honey-coloured curls, petite,
once played my Eleanor of Aquitaine;
her kisses, French --- but delicate, discreet ---
the lion Henry subject to her reign.
That summer, in the Square, we scooped ice cream,
Becca and I. I used to call her Boris.
She'd curse at me, a sign of her esteem:
each naughty word, an archangelic chorus!
Michelle at nineteen seemed almost a child:
she'd tell me knock-knock jokes as we both sat
in her dorm room. I was slightly beguiled;
she, reticent. And I respected that.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 213 times
Written on 2019-02-28 at 15:52
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