by Robert Rittenhouse
Here’s to you, Ada (derived from “The Conditional”)
She giggles, those dimples, stop staring, I say.
Under the sun’s blanket, I hope for tomorrow.
Maybe the stutter will stumble, but say it doesn’t,
I’ll give myself a V8. Yet come
Tuesday, will we or won’t we, I say.
Glasses thick brought a riveting rose’s tint, the-
pauses, whispers in moon-
light caught hers. On a carousel, she becomes
enamored, pupils elated, overall an
endeavor endearing she. Soon, barriers icy
melt as we waltz like sugar plums away from the lull’s pit.
Due by date- I’ve lost count, I say.
Ballet flat pops, flowers bloom, our
fondness steady. Sweet-gum,
Peppermint, spear, on a tree.
Is this Neverland? I say. I face her face’s heat, is
the hourglass done? We bid adieus. I’m petrified.