It must have been something I said
stretched full-length in my feathered queen bed,
fingering white lace on a flannel nightgown.
Our get-acquainted discourse through telephone lines,
an obvious breakdown in dating etiquette guidelines,
echoes from the corners of my brain.
“I don’t cook or clean; I prefer to pay a fee.
I abstain from chores that smack of domesticity.
It’s to the fine things in life I was born.
“There’ll be no commitments for me
for I yearn to be footloose and free
to flit coast to coast whenever I choose.
“Should it be a social companion you need,
no ingénue and unpedigreed,
then book me a room. But please inform them I’ll pay.”
Guess the translation got lost
conveying, “I’ll bear the cost.”
It’s been ten weeks since he called.
No word’s been heard from that Lou’siana man
who galled to court my freckled aging hand.
Guess my honesty he couldn’t abide.
It’s clear as glass; my “men skills” are a bust.
They hide beneath a dense coat of rust.
I’ll need lessons for the dance of “Senior Mating.”
As I ponder my future and what to do next,
figure “dating” —it just might be better to text.
It must have been something I said!
© Susan Parker
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author’s written permission.