Brady, you went to school with pretty Kayla.
You’re six feet one, soft spoken and you’re handsome,
and you still haven’t begged her out for dinner?
Rich girl? Easy to marry as a poor girl ”
words wasted on this poet by his father.
I chickened out on marrying a woman
skittish as any mallard hen at sunrise.
Ran off. Brady, I am no friend to weddings,
but I am writing you this curtal sonnet,
confessing my long love for Kayla’s mother
whose real wealth is the merit of her marriage.
All of us know how hard seed is to come by,
and land, harder to come by than a planter.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Canada’s Offensive Secularism
On March 25, the Canadian House of Commons voted to repeal the good faith religious opinion defense…
Against “God Alone”
A few years ago, I had some routine surgery. Something went wrong in recovery. The nurses on the…
The Politics of Judas
In this Easter season, we naturally reflect on the passion of Christ, his resurrection, and all that…
