A Dangerous Valentine

I’d love to be a poet,
I’d write a soppy ode
and make my husband panic
by sending it in code.

He’d have to try and figure
not only who had sent it,
he’d also have to worry
if the writer really meant it.

And I’d never own up,
nor tell him it was me.
I’d wait to see if he confessed,
so patient would I be.

But if he didn’t show me
my poetic work of art,
or tell me he’d received it,
I’d tear his limbs apart.

So maybe it is safer
if I not compose at all.
His life could be in danger
from a sudden staircase fall.

Besides, he knows I love him
and needs no verse to prove it.
And I need no dead body
I’d only have to move it.

www.lorrainemace.com