We had the month of May, once
Pretty gal from Italy told him by the Monterey Bay,
the pipe dream poet,
he isn’t poetry,
he isn’t love,
he is cursed,
cursed to live in dead memories and places.
She caressed his hair, kissed his lips and she whispered.
We must drink the good alcohol,
we must fall drunk in love.
Love shouldn’t be shackle chains of heavy burden,
should be the most beautiful days we know.
He told Alexandra,
beautiful lady, kind lady.
When I look into those coffee brown eyes,
hear the sweetness of your voice.
You make me believe,
love is near,
He smelled the fragrant of flowers in her hair and skin.
He told her, you have made my days of May.
Wonderful, warm and sweet.
He watched her take-off her shoes and
she danced with the sea.
He knew, dear Alexandra,
loved wanderlust, loved the sea…
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The Reluctant Poet 