still fair, on the other foot

she wrote me a poem
 
a bit sloppy, but laid honest.
Could tell she been paying att
ention. She knew which little  
romances I like to play up in  
my head. Something in the way
of a divine strut, even likened
my happy feet to the feathers
of a peacock. Threw down lines
that said the best of me, that
I can often forget. She forgave
the worst, and heightened my in
betweens in an appreciation that
I honestly never thought could be
struggled through for me. Took me
 
well off guard. I am old enough to
know that the largest trials in life
come down to timing. Love, mostly is
missed. I am already off scratching  
little notes for new chickens to shred
into nesting, and here she comes 100
years too late with snipers precision.  
I know; with more certainty than exhale  
follows inhale, that not a thing is off
limits in the wares of love and war, but  
am far from used to being on this side of
the foxtrot. Woo me in art, and I am doom
ed to smelt. Seems to me the best bet is to
 
get the omelet scrambled quick. She never knew
the always me, and most likely I never did of  
her. But these lonely passages are my last stand
and she seems needy of war. My whole heart never
left the lands where the artist depicts god, and
now she drew lines in the sand. Buckle up butter-
cup, now that I know that you know where my love  
lies nothing less than a duel to the death is where
our marriage is. She wrote me a poem, and although
I have written her a thousand, I think that she should
be warned that these words mostly ignored, are incendiary
when listened to.