He had a poem in his pocket.
But like a locket, it was closed.
He bided his time, when he felt fine,
when his heart might be as designed.
He scribbled his poem to paper.
Now, he can’t be a traitor.
Out on today’s field, his poem
would be the weapon he’d wield.
The poem burned in his pocket,
words shooting like a rocket.
Soon she’ll be where he sees her,
and cupid’s arrow will flare.
Finally, they’ll fall in love,
fall with all their might.
The poem will win all affection,
because he wrote every word just right.
But as he went home,
there it still hid.
perhaps another day,
the poem in his pocket.
© Joey Blue and thepoetryaboutus.com, 2019. All rights reserved.