by Beau Boudreaux
writing her a poem
though we just met
on the balcony, knives
of her shoulders,
in deep green dress
my blind date for this June wedding
a cocktail set me straight
like streetcar rails, my shoes laced …
she slept at the Hampton
sealed in my jacket pocket …
what I said—nothing, she was not my type
walleyed, big teeth
what I caught for being dead bait.
Beau Boudreaux teaches English in Continuing Studies at Tulane University in New Orleans. His first book of poetry, “Running Red, Running Redder” will be published this spring.
Jennifer Riley / April 26, 2012
I like the mystery in the first two lines: I don’t know whether the speaker has just written his first poem, ever, or whether the speaker is a writer of many poems. (and will whisper the correct spelling “epithalamion.” Two letter a’s). Haven’t seen that term used is several decades, so thanks!
Beau Boudreaux / June 23, 2012
Yes, Jennifer. “Epithalamion” is the correct spelling. Thank you for for correction. All the best.