So your love is like a red, red rose.
Congratulations, Bobby.
Talk to me when your heart is
an ornamental cabbage, at best,
when it seems to be choked
by some ugly vine intent on
sapping the life out of everything—
yes, even love. Oh, I know.

Your love is like the melody
that’s sweetly played in tune.
Well, that’s great. Maybe
her melody jangles sometimes,
goes all cymbals and harmonicas,
accordions and tubas, all in a
different key, keeping different time.
Can she enjoy it anyway? Can you?

It is easy to make promises about
things that haven’t happened yet—
your drying seas and melting rocks.
And doesn’t it feel great to leave
with some high-flying pledge
to come again someday?
Bobby, what is she supposed
to do with that—

pine for you as she watches
vines grow over the cabbages
and the tubas come marching in?
Go back to her, Bobby. Let
your love be something else,
something really useful, like
a loaf of bread to sustain you both,
and a knife to cut it with.


For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge Day 8. Prompt was to answer a dead poet. I chose Robert Burns.



6 thoughts on “Promises

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