Tonight's Poet Corner: Second Guesser
Second Guesser by Belinda Roddie Who do you love in the end, my friend? Do you love the girl with flaming curls selling red roses on the crooked teeth corner? Or perhaps you swoon as you attempt to woo the dame who could fit in the frame of a Rubenesque painting? You might find yourself guzzling wine past midnight and seeing double of the lady in a black cocktail dress. You broke a pint glass at a pub, and she cleaned your wounds with scraps and a ladybug patterned bandaid: So cute. So charming. So thoughtful. So quaint. So everything. Now you have names upon names upon names upon names written on your skin, but no phone numbers - the nomenclature, not the code. The identification, not the contact or communication. You may as well admire them from afar, like at a museum: Look, but don't touch. Don't ever touch. Don't lay a finger. I swear, you let your fucking pinky rest on the sculpture, I guarantee someone will swoop around and break it off