White Rose

(A “bonus” love poem for classical forms month. — Owen)


Out past the river where the brittle-grass grows,
Over past the tower and the old White Rose,
Stands the empty ruin of a ten cent store
Where we used to go in the long-before.

We were in our twenties but we had our pride,
Living by the river in a single-wide,
Didn’t have a dollar, but we dreamed of more
Dancing by the river near the ten cent store.

You were very beautiful, and I was very fine —
You called me a lunatic — I called you mine —
Playing out our fantasies behind a door:
Rich in dreaming crazy, but in other ways, poor.

The brittle grass turned years ago to browns and grays,
No one’s at the White Rose any more these days,
Did the best we knew, and loved the best we could:
For lives that aren’t glamorous can still be good –

Yes, even white-rose-dime-store lives, can be

 
Damn good

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