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My Sweetheart Called Today, and My Wife Merely Laughed: Dramatic Poetry American in Craft
My Sweetheart Called Today, and My Wife Merely Laughed:
Dramatic Poetry American in Craft
while Rummaging in Rumination's Roomy Run
through Sixteen Minutes of my Eighty Years of Fun
Nine-thirty-four this morning as I opened up . . . the door of our white Malibu
to start and warm the car up for . . . my wife with her day's work to do,
my cell-phone rang, but sunlight made . . . impossible for me to see
the person's name then calling, so . . . I answered boldly, recklessly,
and said, "I'll be with you inside . . . within a minute, if you please."
Nine-thirty-six, now sitting in the pas-sen-ger front seat with ease,
hitching a ride to local Walgreen's for my an-nu-al flu shot
(which through insurance Medicare . . . I had already bought),
I found myself conversing with some Carolina creamy cotton candy
and found my wife was driving, smiling, thinking this is not so dandy!
You see, my wife sublimely laughs and thinks it humorous, but worthy of much pride,
the man who twenty-seven years ago . . . selected her to be his Tulsa bride
when she was thirty-nine years old and he was fifty-two, plus seven months
(for this transaction carries no refunds . . . to compensate you for false fronts),
for now she's sixty-six, but still . . . he and Chicago keep her briskly oc-cu-pied,
while he at eighty sometimes jeopardizes his own neck . . . to roam the countryside
and locate women beautiful and literate . . . who ask him sweetly to their side
and even keep on writing him . . . and tele-phoning him . . . in-ces-sant-ly
when they've already seen the in-no-cent-ly complex-minded-ness in him there be,
but also all that nomad bad, and smugly ugly, anyone with two smart eyes can see!
Even her girlfriends trying to explain to her, "He's such an awful guy!"
look on with need for seed and greed to feed on jealousy, and wonder why
the husbands who picked them so long ago turned out to be such boring duds
who worry over floods and cruds, but never pick her any pink rose-buds.
Nine-fifty, I'm still chatting Carolina inside Walgreen at the pharmacy,
but now she has to go her way away, and doctor must take proper care of me.
I know these sixteen minutes from my life might bore to death not just a few of you,
but you will see in them how life surpasses even death when you reach eighty too.
Max Joseph Havlick, eighty years and one day old, but bold, and never cold,
on Thursday afternoon, December 5th, twenty-thirteen -- he's told, it's gold.
This copyright December 2013 by Max Havlick School,
16 W. Vermont Street in Villa Park, in Illinois, in USA,
all rights reserved for my sweet saintly wife and my
long-distance calling Carolina sweet-heart to
contest and fight about . . . after, and just in case,
I’m ever gone for long from either one of them.
Reminder all you boys, and girls for you I'd say it's double,
to have clean fun in life, but stay away from reckless trouble,