I don't know much about time or dates,
Or the capital of these Newnitey States,
Or even when Beethoven was born,
Or whether it was the 21st or 22nd morn
Of February
That you began hollering at me.

I only know that every day--
I could be walking along Bancroft Way,
Or stopping at a book stall,
Or having an eclair,
(Alas)
At the Bear's Lair,
Or listening to "La Mer",
Or tying my shoe,
When suddenly,
Out of the blue,
For no reason at all,
I'll say, "My darlin darlin,"
And that's you.

*                 *                 *                 *                *

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This page copyright 2006 by Charles H. Smith and Nancy Schimmel. All rights reserved.

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