Box...er Shorts

She lived alone, her spouse was gone,

With no one left to lean upon,

To a senior’s lodge was drawn,

And there, she met a man named John.

And it was there that she and he,

Enjoyed each other’s company.

A friendship that was meant to be

Companionship, a guarantee.

At breakfast, which they often shared,

She waited for him, on her chair,

Becoming more and more aware,

That he was anywhere but there.

Finally, she stood. And went.

To see what kept him was her bent,

And hoping there was no event,

That dining with her, did prevent.

But when she knocked upon his door,

Through the plank, his voice did soar,

He’d be five minutes, nothing more,

Her inconvenience, he deplored.

And so she went back down to wait.

The minutes ticked by. Seven. Eight.

Her growing fears to then abate,

Went back to check upon her date.

She met him coming down the treads,

Her fears reduced—he was not dead.

And, though he moved as slow as lead,

“It’s tough but I’ll be there,” he said.

She finally got him seated right,

Their meal was a true delight,

But afterward, try as he might,

Just to stand, took too much fight.

The medics took her friend away,

She called there later in the day,

Hoping news, they would convey,

And all her fears would be allayed.

Someone by the name of Schwartz,

Said he was fine. In her report.

Got started just a bit off sorts,

Both legs in one leg of his shorts.

To you with parents, or a spouse,

Whose strength seems weaker than a mouse,

You must be sure, don’t be a louse,

Please check before you sell the house!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week in our neighbourhood,

We'll tackle 'thanksgiving'. It'll be good!