Marge

Anxious neurology PhD

Marge once lived

with a handsome Greek.

Now it’s George. He’s

an Albanian. Close said Marge.

George is a geographer.

His kyack goes on land

whatever that might mean.

She says she likes him OK.

Marge dropped in this morning.

She’s never dropped in before

to tell me her British brother in law

a good enough painter

her words has an opening nearby.

Just drawings said Marge. Come meet him

tonight. She was more adamant

than persuasive. Charm is not

her middle name.

But don’t come to dinner. I don’t have

enough food for you. Maybe you

should eat at home.  I’m not much

of a cook anyway.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

4 Comments

  1. Everyone has a Marge. Mine was Jerry Margulies. I was ten. He called me up, invited me to his party.
    He said, “Don’t get excited. A lot of people couldn’t come.

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