IT'S NOT EVERYDAY

Volumes, that's what I want to know,

Not just the Summer in the small house,

But of noise, not trouble.

Cupolas, squires, and balconies that were scrolled

Hung in a cloudless sky the color of ochre.

But that was the type of day it was

That poisoned by praise of unworthies,

He glanced to the street.

Debris was a damp dispersion

To a mind content to sit and stew.

Nowhere could he escape her.

And she, arm in arm, with him.

He creaked as he rose, ankle or knee,

It was of no consequence, and he had no time to think of which gave out the sound,

For there she was

With him

Did I say arm in arm?

That's not quite right on further inspection.

His hand around her waist as they walked

Hers, non-committal by his side.

But it was enough, the look of acceptance,

Of serenity in those brown eyes,

The rejected one with creaks

Yelled to him,

"Let her go. She's mine."

Or she should be.