by Clarence Caddell
I picture him less a ‘this’ than ‘one of those’:
A match-stick head in front, side-view and back
Somehow, his body thick and rather slack,
However (though as far as that, who knows?)
On Valentine’s a boxed long-stem red rose—
Ah no, the florist’s choice; has known love’s lack,
But blamelessly, has never got the sack
At work, enjoys what? Fishing and car shows?
At last you’ve found the one who should have been.
He lives where he grew up, and now his friends
Are yours as well. And nothing is a lie
In truth, though all seems to emit the keen
Aroma of dull falsehood my soul lends
To all it savours, seldom asking why.
Clarence Caddell is editor of The Borough. He has published two poetry collections with Bonfire Books.
The Borough 