Thursday, February 16, 2006


My girlfriends keep dumping me
for boring guys. It seems the very
things that first attract them, first
interest them, must drive them

away, in time. But, like Popeye,
I yam what I yam. Even
sung asleep by these siren ports,
even if I pretend otherwise,

I’ll never be otherwise;
I’ll always be leaving me sweetie
for the sea. Olive, you’re better
off with Bluto. I’m outa spinach.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

This is one of those poems that started with an interesting phrase and eventually took a left turn into something else entirely.

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