Maroon, Indigo, Cobalt-
Name what you may-
For the color of Love, picks the creator
A little fade, a little red, a little shade around the edge.
It doesn’t happen on starry nights, on blue twilights
Certainly not with a brave Knight,
For life’s not Keats or Shakespeare
With a room for Montague and Capulet’s gunfight.
To me, it happened outside a bar, oh!
-How the bites of frost and beer blended-
But the cold didn’t last long-
Until the girl in red descended.
Dark brown lipstick, dark eyes to match –
The dark bob hair
With smokes of nicotine to catch
Wait; did that not concur your perfect type?
The type your mother wishes?
The type whose smile lights the room
The type who makes French dishes.
My love was different-yes, I called it Love
It was a mess, She was a mess
Her mascara, my heart;
Everything- was a mess.
She talked funny,
Wiped her spaghetti hands on her dress,
Drank like a fish
And wore sneakers with her dress, nevertheless.
But something heavy fell, and fell hard-
The heart of a poet, for the odd girl in red.
Falling in love is not sonnet, it’s not that tale
Your theatre showed you
It’s what you make of it.
How “perfect” you make it sound.
But one thing that always comes true-
is the part where they say ‘happily ever after’
Look at me, a perfectionist poet, a grammar teacher
Married thirteen years to a drunk girl-
Who can’t tell nouns and verbs apart.