by Bill Bowler
I’m such a dope. It’s such a joke,
and each time, hopeful, up I jump.
It’s for the landlady, or worse,
the anticlimactic wrong number.
So I decide that I’ll call you,
it’s just from pride that I refuse,
I’m probably wrong on what our plans were,
but if I call, I’m afraid you’d answer,
“Oh, yes, hello, Bill.And maybe it isn’t even him.
I’m sorry, but about
the opera, tonight is out.
My boyfriend’s here in London still."
Maybe it’s just the line’s so thin,
it’s difficult for me to tell,
probably it’s just something else
came up. You had no chance to call,
our plans were tentative after all,
and who are we? Just casual friends,
but what a sad way to end,
to never hear your voice again.
Copyright © 2009 by Bill Bowler