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Click hereWe razz romance,
push it into the mud.
Yet he picked a final rose of summer
and, sure enough, I pricked my cliché
on a thorn.
But it was romantic,
like the creamer heart that took shape
in my Sumatra Mandehling.
Latent beating clung to the inside
of a pink, café mug.
Tomorrow, we'll drink mud
from a jug, and tease romance
until it cries.
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copyright d. dixon
9.16.2008
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your cliche on a thorn. I'll be wearing that like an earring, if I wore earrings. It's jingly though. For sure.