Category: Odes to David

David I love your short curly hair
And for football you so very much care
I sit there and ask, “Can we go for a walk?”
“Wait what?! Football is on!” I hear you balk.

“But the weather’s so nice,” I pout and I beg.
But you will not move, not a single leg.
You set up your multiple football screens
In spite of my nagging, glares and pleas.

“I’ll take a walk at half-time,” you compromise
But you’re not interested, I quickly surmise.
And I’m crushed – it seems you love me so little
To football apparently I play second fiddle.

But that’s okay, I’m an adult and I’m stable
And I’ll use today to lobby for a new coffee table
And I’ll get my way in future discussions on decor
Because you’ll have to prove that you love me more.

David I love your big curly hair.
And that grey flannel shirt, you love to wear,
It’s your ugliest shirt, by very far.
But you insist on wearing it, it’s so bizarre.

I say to you, “Hmm, you’re wearing this shirt.”
You reply, “All the others, are full of dirt.
It’s my only clean shirt, today I must wear it,”
“No!” I reply, “I cannot bear it!”

“David this shirt does not flatter your figure,”
“Dear God,” you reply, “Am I getting bigger?!”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I stammer and stutter,
“It’s…it’s just a weird shirt,” I poorly sputter.

“Well I like it, there’s nothing you can do,”
And as I write this post I know it’s true.
That ugly shirt – it’s here to stay.
It’ll probably grow old with us; you’ll wear it each day.

David I love your big, curly hair.
I love how when you’re annoyed, you glare.
You throw your arms up, you say “How can this be?
Why must you always dilly – dally?”

Then you tilt your head to the side and give me a smile,
And you don’t seem to mind I’ve taken a while.
You say, “Okay let’s just go,” as you rush towards the door –
“Wait!” I reply, “Can I have five minutes more?!”

“What are you doing?!” You yell, surprised every time!
I respond, “Putting on make-up, so I look sublime!”
Then you sigh, and say, “Fine, just hurry, we have go.”
David, we’re not all naturally pretty like you, you know.

When we walk out the door, I ask, “Are you really mad?”
And you reply, “No, this isn’t that bad.”
“Plus I knew you were going to be late,
So I told you 7:30, but the reservation’s for 8.”