The Writer

Humble was his craft—a journalist I think
But his name led on much more—a genius on the brink!
Fitzgerald they call him, oh could it really be?
That I am in the presence of a high society?

His rhythmic pentameter was all but a stammer.
His grammar, such glamour, which added to my enamor.
He wooed with his words, but in a shy sort of way…
Not used to divulging in speech so they say.

He captured my attention with every word he dare mention,
Each one its own melody, with care and perfection.
We bantered, we joked, the discourse was savvy.
He escorted me home, the kiss shared not shabby…

My mind still a whirling of whiskey and delight…
He asked for my number, wish I may wish I might…
Receive a text the next morning
Drenched with wit, and adoring.

For it’s hard to find those who know the lost art
Of punctuation and prose, oh be still my heart!
So I fall asleep with dreams of The Writer
Imagine in a night, my future seemed brighter.

The sun greets me feeling slightly less magical
Sorting through my brain, what I remember problematical
I met a boy last night—a writer, yes I recall!
‘Twas not for his looks but his locution I did fall.

I rush to my phone, hoping intrigue is mutual.
But the text I find is truly inexcusable:
“Hey wud u like 2 get coffee?”
Escape from my lips, a squeal not so softly.

And just like that, all hope is diminished
I wrote the date off for our story had finished.
Words are my first love, and for them I’ll remain,
Forever in search of a partner sans slang.