She knows my face. She knows my name.
But not when she place her idle game.
No Love is as true, or could be the same
As ours. Except her idle game.
The Idle Game gives back so much.
It’s undemanding in its touch.
When touched, it gives back great reward
When ignored, it doesn’t understand ‘bored’.
My love loves me with passion great.
The Idle Game will never mate.
…but listing minuses/defeats –
It never needs to clean the sheets.
I love her. She loves her game.
Much less than me. Not even the same.
She really does. Her love is true.
(Give her five minutes? She’s something to do.)
________
postscript:
This poem I finished at midnight exact
When we were to go to bed in fact.
I sent her the poem. She’s on her phone.
She’s leaving all her texts alone.
A lovely face. A brilliant mind.
A treasure beyond any I’d think I’d find.
In my arms I’d hold her, but I’d have to sidle.
I may be compelling. But I’m not idle.
postscript:
Darling? Ahem? Hello?
It’s twelve-ten, you know.
I’m right here. I still exist.
All right. Add this to the list:
She loves me, not it.
Just as I said…
…but IT won’t make her go to bed.
post-postscript:
Oh, hm. She thinks she’s beyond caring?
I’m going to start a new poem about what she’s wearing.
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