What I noticed first were
your stained teeth and crooked nose,
and you told me, years later,
you hated the way I ate.
“You sound like a cow,”
you tell me before storming
out of the room.
For that first meeting
we endured the others flaws.
You almost didn’t come you said,
again years later,
as I had told you I looked
different from my picture.
What I meant by that
was I shaved my head and beard,
but like many things I’ve said
I never thought for a second
how it would sound.
You wore a shirt
that hung off
your small, lithe frame.
I chanced glances down it,
and you caught me peaking.
I certainly did myself no favors
at our first meeting.
Then I asked you
if you’d like to walk
behind that lake
away from the crowded
shopping complex.
Somehow you agreed even though
you have informed me
I gave off a vibe of
forbidding and danger.
You have come to learn
I like walking around lakes
and over bridges when I can.
We continued walking and
talking as evening gave way to night.
Our walk ended at
the drivers door of
your blue pick-up truck.
We said our goodbyes
and I promised to call.
David Huzzard Writes 