Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

I See My Pretty Face In Your Old Eyes

Little Tammy, in her corduroy overalls
Dyed a heinous shade of orange
Her dishwater blonde hair in two braids
Flopping against each shoulder
Bare feet standing in soapy water
Hands shoved in pockets

Behold! the Prince of Logic
Mr. Leonard Triponov
His hand, the veins roped like vines
Gripping the gardening hose
His car dripping suds
Onto the driveway asphalt

"I love you," she says.
"That's foolish talk," he replies.
She is thirteen
He is seventy five
Got to find a place for them to hide.