PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Judge Yeager told me quite frankly

(over two-for-one margaritas and

free hotwings)

that he had never felt the warmth

of genuine love;

nor experienced the thrill of a

lovers' sunset, a waiting heart

or whispered dreams.



He wanted to know where the time had gone,

and what had happened to the fantasies

of his youth,

which was lost when he became the

"somebody" his father wanted him to be;

his father, who had more trophies than scruples.

Judge Yeager had never known the

touch of fragile forget-me-nots

and golden sunsets.



We had another round of drinks;

he told me how he had won his own self trophy

shooting spitballs at the teacher in private school

where his father was chairman of the board;

and how he fell in love with Connie Meadows

because she had bells on her slip and

jingled when she walked.



But Connie married Judge Yeager's father

when she was nineteen, and he was fifty-two.

I told Judge Yeager tropies are not everything,

and, well, just look at poor Connie now...

spending her days in a facility with

twenty-four hour care to be sure she

doesn't take her own life.



We ordered one more drink while I read

a poem about free butterflies and shared sunsets.

It was the first time I had ever seen

Judge Yeager cry.