Poem: Hopelessly

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Hopelessly

I am old and out of fashion,
hopelessly male.
I have learned discretion,
the ability to close my mouth,
capturing the improper
before it spills out all incorrect
and out of time.

But still,
I am old and out of fashion,
with all its good and bad,
full of manners and
the belief that some things are best left unsaid,
that it is worth the pain of silence
to keep a relationship without bullet holes and blood.
I open doors for the women I precede,
whether they want me to or not.
I use, too often it seems, multisyllabic words,
the right fork, and the right wine glass,
Speak sometimes too directly and others,
too obliquely.

But still,
I am old and out of fashion,
and so I will tell you, perhaps too often,
how I love the way you look,
sparkling green eyes and satin skin,
the tilt of your head and the hint of cleavage,
the promise in your walk.
I smile when you enter the room,
and it is not just because you are good company,
(though you are that and more,
conversing like a courtesan.)
but because me and my wrinkles
appreciate beauty still, and particularly,
the blush on your cheeks when I do.

About this poem.

I could have played on the hopelessly in love thing, but it is in the poet’s manual that we can’t use cliches, even when they are correct. Nearly two years into our marriage, I never expected this kind of love. And yet, here I am. I don’t think I will ever lose the gratitude and wonderment.

And yes, that is the woman I love.

Tom

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