That girl's got eyes like
1975
and enough stress in her red dress that
those eyes are on fire
and i want to own those eyes
so i buy her a dozen roses,
but she's allergic to
pollen,
so she throws them away
without even reading the note that says,
"I could love you.."
That girl's got eyes like
1975
and enough hurt in that jean skirt that
those eyes are on ice
and i want to kiss those thighs
so i write her a short, little poem
in a notebook the same color as
pollen
and think about
giving it to her,
but i find i fear her rejection
that she will see the page
then rip it up
without first reading a
line or two
of the poem i wrote
about those ('75) brown eyes
without hearing first
"I could love you.."
