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Blind Date
Meet the dark-haired boy
At eight
Relax, blondie, it’s just
A date
First date
With a boy you’ve never met.

See him
Offer an awkward hello
Hear him
Does he sound like he‘s scared?
Smell him
Too much cologne
Obviously
He’s just a little nervous.

She bets it’s not his
First date
Bets it’s not his last date
He seems like just the
Type of boy
Who’d come and go and move around.

It’s a shy thing
It starts out slow and stiff, is it a
Guy thing?
How would she ever know?
She takes a
Bold fling
And asks him if
He wants to, maybe….

Ice skate?
Sure it’s cold, but maybe then the
Climate
Will wake them up and make this
First date
A bit easier and breezier and
Maybe she’ll
Start having fun
Stop worrying about the dark-haired boy.

Short walk
Through the still and silent park, and
They talk
About nothing in particular, they
Skip-hop
In the moonlight glows
A path of white chalk
1 2 3 4 5 I win.

Sock fight
Kick off their shoes and run around in
Moonlight
Through and through the dewey grass, they
Love night
The darkness helps
with hide-and-seek
She’s never had such fun before.

Naptime
They stretch out, both are still dizzy from
The ride
Up and down, around; she thinks of
A rhyme,
A poem comes to mind
She thinks she’ll say it,
maybe later, now she’s running out of time.

Back home
He walks her to her door; it’s dark, they’re
Alone
Did she have a nice time? Yes! And
She’ll phone
Next time she wants
Another date
She really had an awesome time.

The boy pauses
looks away, as though ashamed,
And he explains
That it was all just a blind date
And nothing more.
You see, it was his

Birthday
His friends went out and set him up with
A date
It really was a nice present, but
He’d hate
To lead her on when
Really she is
Just another girl, a birthday gift.

He waves goodbye
Leaves her standing in the doorway
Frozen, still, and pondering.
Just a date, she thinks
And tells herself
It didn’t matter;
At least not to him.

She doesn’t hear
From him again; he moves on
Moves around
She says she doesn’t care
She just hopes he’s learned
Not to mess with girls…..

For his next
Birthday, she
Thinks…
He’ll probably get a motorcycle.


~~~

I just wanted to use that last line. I'm so so sorry.

Well, do you want me to do what Sam did and have the chick stab people in their sleep? Or are you saying it needs to be rewritten? 'Cause I don't rewrite poems.

But that isn't the story. And it would ruin the entire point of me writing it. I wanted to use that line.

Deal with it.

biggrin