I don’t approve of poetry
I don’t approve of hens
I don’t approve of parking lots
I will not write with pens
I don’t approve of little boys or nannies in a huff
I don’t approve of common noise or sonnets spoke from ruff
I don’t approve of falling stars with wishes tagged upon them
Nor do I know how Santa feels as toys lay heavy on him
Yet, you I may approve of…
Yet, you I may adore…
I watch you slip across my dreams with crimson lips galore
Yes, you have something irksome, a taste I can not name
I don’t believe I’ll tell you why—I love you all the same
©
agw
