When Desperate Times called Desperate Measures

Over the phone line during a frantic time

Desperate Times called Desperate Measures.

She meditated on the floor of her room, eyes closed 

As his whispers described lazy locations 

And quickly melting dreams.

She felt connected to him.

The weight of her soft blue words

Causing his heavy head to meet the soft pillow

A lump formed in his throat from

Empty promises and per diem dinners.

Thanks for calling out of the blue, he says,

Next time I will be sure to call you.

Vintage Film Series

“If I were the marrying kind, and I thank the lord I’m not sir”

Through her coral colored finger nails
Between her permanently lined,
Continuously pouty dark ruby lips
My cousin worries out loud about never getting married.

She is eight months my junior
Her sweet Southern drawl
Covers her intelligence
Making her meek concern sound reasonable to my ears.
Am I the marrying kind?

The thought sticks to my mind like tree sap.
As my female friends are falling like blossom petals,
My relationships begin and end with wildfires.
Slash and burn the continued path ahead
Successfully clearing an average of two relationships per year.

I take a deep breath and sigh,
“We are the marrying kind…”
I trail off; my cousin shivers off the thought
To avoid the engagement grim reaper.

I appease her with my words
And thank the lord I’m not her.

---

Poetry Think Links:
Title Lyrics
Wedding Industry Statistics from The Knot
Marriage and Divorce from CDC
The Gay Law Report