And in French

Still life- Red flowers and poppies, Gogh, 1890

                                                      

                                                           Them, you and me

When we talk of love,

Why do we do?

Flowers and a crazy dove.

It got dull and boring

Hostel room, on a regular day

You and me, sat reading

in a dirty, rusting, sack of hay.

You thought it funny if

were awful smelly feet,

abruptly thrown in my lap

and gruff my read

swear I, you were to get a slap.

Smelled the reek of fish

Stale and fried

A surgeon’s pressure stockings

Never washed and dried.



Smiled sheepishly, you

folded them away.

Cooling my anger 
I minded my own way

On a day as today

I remember fondly

And if I look astray

its  cuz’ I miss you so badly.

I don't know

When they talk of love

Why do they do?

Flowers and an albino dove.

They have tried,

tried and tried again,

to fit it right. Unending quench.

in paintings, plays, songs,

and in French.

Nothing is more romantic

than a simple memory of you.

Now, that you’re across Atlantic

Don’t know how better to say,

I love you.