On the Way Home
The air forgives, puts her at
The spring wind soothes her secret schemes,
And life moves briskly, like this breeze
To help her mind enjoy her dreams.
She doesn't think he'll have to know.
Why should it matter anyhow?
There were no angels watching, so,
Who says he is a cuckold now?
If you have any comments on this poem, Frank Hubeny would be pleased to hear from you.