The Rest Does Not Matter
Slow smokey blues at your favorite diner.
Plunking bass. A side of sax.
Dancing music and I get up from the table,
pull you up for a slow dance,
your eyes wide with surprise, but
falling into my arms nonetheless,
the breakfast crowd a bit bemused
at the gentle grind, a public display,
more suited perhaps to a late-night bar
Some things are irresistible.
For now, the rest does not matter.
About this poem
A love poem. What else?