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.