The Odd Shakespeare

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.