SHARPENING MY WIT

SHARPENING MY WIT
(FOR JENI)

Sharpening my dormant wit, on the sweet jagged whetstone of yours.
Quick, sarcastic, beautiful, a delightfully sweet old bag,
A love that’s strong and oh so sure, you can really let that tongue wag.

Something about you caught my fancy, when we shared an office together,
George and Martha were our aliases, like the first Prez and his lady,
But oftentimes just to be cheeky we called each other baby.
Yet you had to have the last word, and cleverly called me Baby Doll,
I guess I kind of liked it or I’d have pinned you to the wall.
Well, all right, I wouldn’t have, I’m incapable of violence,
And you’re a pretty tough old broad, if that makes any sense.

How we clicked is anyone’s guess, but alas I do digress.
You seemed to like my people, the gays seemed to love you.
I would not call you a magnet for them, well, okay, yes, I would,
Your arms were welcoming, ever true, a guy could feel warm and understood,
And you had me from the day of my nasty fall at our place of biz
When you followed the ambulance to the hospital, not unlike the Wiz.
Except the road was not of yellow brick, it was merely dirty asphalt,
Though I would hasten to add the state of our highways is really not your fault.

And later on you lost your precious son, but kept his spirit tucked inside,
The silent portals of your heart, a heart that still stayed open wide.
So I bow to your excellence at coping, your subtle way of scoping,
Of ferreting out all the assholes life has cast in your direction,
You always find a new one to add to your collection.
And how I’d miss you were you not here on this turning earth,
Spinning your vignettes, as you smoke your pack of cigarettes,
Entertaining like a queen divinely holding court.
You are the droll, the deadpan one, the unassuming sort.

And Baby, how I love you, like our first Prez loved his lady,
But without that heterosexual stuff, you know that drives me crazy.
Sharpening my dormant wit on your sweet jagged whetstone,
And proud to say that we are friends, though we’re all in this alone.
In the end, our friends are all we have, and I know your friendship’s true,
My platonic valentine, my touchstone, there’s no one quite like you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOTE: I wrote this for my friend Jeni for Valentine's Day. Love you, baby.