A Poet's Scripts

George

I saw him first. 

Riding on his gray bicycle. 

Gray with a red front. 

I was too shy to say hello, so she did it for me.

He responded.

I gathered my strength and held a conversation.

He rode past us. 

He circled around the field. 

We didn't know his name.

"George," she said. "Because he looks like George Clooney. Look at the hair!"

George it is. 

We saw him again.

This time, I began the conversation.

"Hi!"

He replied, and I was disappointed. 

Just a hello? 

What had happened to our relationship in those few short minutes?

Again, he rides of into the distance, and we get distracted by a purple elephant and a cactus. 

After some playful teasing, we search for our companion, but he is nowhere to be seen. 

We walk yet another lap, and we see him again,

coming from the pool. 

Nothing. Not even a glance. 

Is he cheating on me?

How dare he.

I never should have trusted that bike.

But I can forgive him. 

Because he is George.