To My Latest Femme Fatale

I’ve no excuse for having wasted days
Endeavoring ineptly to seduce
You.  Till I’d grown accustomed to your ways
I should have put my time to better use,
 
For now my neck is in a hangman’s noose
I can’t get out of: I can only gaze
And choke on words, disgustingly profuse,
I’ve no excuse for.  Having wasted days
 
Inside a melancholic lovelorn haze
Where steamy thoughts (and frequent self-abuse)
Are now the norm, I try to thread the maze,
Endeavoring ineptly.  To seduce,
 
By luck, a girl like you could force a truce
Of sorts upon the battlefield—then praise
For your lubricious movements might unloose
You till I’d grown accustomed to your ways
 
And learned to keep our straining loins in phase.
Because, as yet, I haven’t got the juice
To set your unresponsive heart ablaze,
I should have put my time to better use.
 
Perhaps if I had acted more like Zeus,
Who suffered no refusals or delays,
I wouldn’t feel so hopelessly obtuse.
For flaws this bald confession now betrays,
                                     I’ve no excuse.




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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Over the past eight years, hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Australia and India. He is inordinately fond of single malt Scotch whisky.