I donned an oddly-patterned bowling shirt, <br />a pair of well-worn jeans with Rainbow sandals; <br />she wore a sweater with a pleated skirt <br />and Gucci bag (with leather-woven handles) . <br /> <br />We matched as well as Scott Fitzgerald’s Eggs, <br />the East and West, old money/nouveau riche, <br />but she had breasts, Athena’s sculpted legs, <br />and, smitten by those parts, I downed her quiche. <br /> <br />It tasted like a rubber egg would taste, <br />stubborn and ruthless on the untrained fork, <br />yet not one hunk of blubber went to waste, <br />and when mimosa called, I popped the cork <br /> <br />and we consumed the nectar of our youth, <br />a mismatched pair consumed by all but truth.<br /><br />David Nelson Bradsher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-means-to-an-end/
