My new potted plant is blooming. So
boldly she’s blooming, and she looks
out the window and she shouts “he’s
coming, he’s coming, he’s coming!”
Is he coming?! Now?
(But I’m too fat!
And I have to clean my flat
and get a hair cut. And travel to
the Airport, I just can’t do that,
being such a phobic… Oh, my God,
what am I going to do: how can I lose
those 30 kg in 3 weeks?! And become
30 years younger? To be the woman
in his dreams?! Woe is me! Woe is me!)
A pen pal wrote me: “I can’t believe
you have the nerve to publish
She’s not my pen pal any longer.
But I think of her sometimes, and
when I do – I smile and smile; but
I comply boldly my own ways.
He’s my friend and my muse, – but if
he fails, I’ll become a public clown.
I can live with that.
But weight and age, that’s bloody
personal. A woman friend thought
so too and wrote me: “Do you really
believe he’s attracted to you –
with that age difference?!
I don’t think so!”
(Smile, smile – on her lips,
(Off with her head!”, said
the Queen of Hearts.)
And he is still mine. But if he fails
I must find a new blooming love.
And write fat about that.
But my lover is my biggest love ever,
nothing can change that…
And he’s now planning to come! And
he’s so aroused and happy about it…
…but I’m bloody scared!
Because when romance meet reality,
soap bubbles will burst and the lovers
must face their hearts unconditionally.
But my sweet houseplant goes on with
her excited shouting: he’s coming, he’s
coming! Oh, hear me out – he’s coming!!