Falling in Love
I didn't believe in falling in love
until I fell in and couldn't get out.
I never even had time to shout -
I lost my footing, lost my nerve,
shot head-over-heels down the endless curve
of the helter-skelter some call lurv.
You're forty-eight and your hair is thin.
Your polo shirts do not hold mystique
and I am not rich or blonde or chic -
I had no idea it would all begin
with your anxious, apologetic grin
and outstretched hand - but I pulled you in.
It's dark in here, no sense about -
just soupy songs about me and you
and all the revolting words are true:
I'm in lurv with you and in pain without.
They'll write on our headstone, not much doubt:
Fell in, silly sods, and couldn't get out.
If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be
pleased to hear from you.