"Kiss me," he said, "or I shall die,
die of a battered heart."

"Oh, please," she said. "Your drama puts
the cart before the horse.
You shall not die; you'll just be sad;
I've often trod this course.
'I'll die! I'll swoon! The bucket kick
without your sweet discourse!'"
Sarcasm rose around them
as she retrieved her coat.
"When you get past blah, blah and blah,
your chance is less remote."

He watched her backside firmly pass
beyond the restaurant door
and knew the truth of which she spoke
deep in each lonely pore.
When will I learn, he asked himself,
by all the saints above,
that when I'm fine to dine alone,
I'll finally dine with love?

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.