Fifty years ago, I went through a poetry phase.
Not a good poetry phase, although there were a few I liked. They were maybe step above “roses are red,” and half a step above “moon, June, croon.”
Mostly they were anguished rhymes after my first two real relationships collapsed, on at the end of summer 1970 and they other in March 1972.
I dedicated each one to various women I knew or had known, but I didn’t need the dedications written at the end to remind me.
There was one with a completely different tone, an ironic song that I called “Lovers’ Lane Blues.”
Strangely, I dedicated it to a female friend I never even dated. My friend at the time was named Christine Worth. Half a century later she is Christine Worth Miller and she is still my friend.
Just for fun, here’s “Lovers’ Lane Blues.”
“We were cruising along in a ’65 Chevy and waiting for the light to change. I turned to my honey and said to her, ‘Let’s go to Lovers’ Lane.’
“We pulled in next to a red Camaro, they were bouncing in the back, so I smiled at the babe and asked her, ‘What do you think of that?’
“She said, ‘I think it looks like fun. Do you want to try it too?’ I grinned and said, ‘If it’s all the same, I’ll leave it up to you.’
“‘Fine,’ said she. ‘Let’s get it on, I’m really hot tonight.’ But when I touched her fine young form, she hit me with her right.
“‘Not that you fool, you pig,’ cried she. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’ When I tried again, she screamed out loud, ‘Pray, help me from this churl!’
“The sirens wailed and the cops drove up. They said, ‘What have we here?’ And now I sit in a prison cell, doing twenty years.”
Bob Frost it isn’t, but it’s nice to remember there were times I wasn’t completely morose.