String Man

If I were a stringer,

I’d string the twinge of passion into your soul,

Yes, my lady, even beneath your shawl;

My strings would be the melody

To remedy your malady;

Filling your head all day long;

Lulling you even to bed;

Yes – if I had me a box,

And a string or two of my own,

I’d strum my way into your heart,

Riding on these waves

Whose ebb hurts so bad,

 It almost feels like smarts;

And oh; I f I were smart,

Both up,

 And down the stairs,

I’d have no care,

Knowing you’d be mine to spare;

My sweetness; You’d know just as well,

You had no spare,

And forgive my stare,

Coz for specie so rare,

To care is all that matters,

And without a stutter,

I’d gladly utter my mutters,

Like spatters on your platter,

Sparkling with golden glitter,

With a string of silver lining;

Now darling, my strings hum again,

Like a palm to softly calm your bum,

Telling of times past,

Of blasts and bursts we had;

But even when I play,

I know I’ll only delay,

Like a slug in the clay,

For I am no string-man,

Only a man with many stings …

Solomon Manzi,

(Archived with the Lantern Meet of Poets)