Because boys are boys . . .
This is a poem I turned in for Poetry 1 (I have Prof. Brandt, and she has the most marvelous snort I have ever heard). Peers get to workshop it, I get that feedback tomorrow. Focused/semi-focused on repeating line.
So here ’tis!
My bowtie boys, Milton, Winston, and Churchill, tell me nice things about myself, like I’m made of the bitties that float down river beds, wash up on sand.
I struggle back smiles when they tell me things
Milton laughs, but he wouldn’t be laughing if he knew how much I lied to him.
My bowtie boys make me furious when they fight, how can three beautiful boys want to fight each other?
Winston starts it all, like some gossipy seventh grader, “Milton said you have bad acne.”
I ignore them for weeks when they fight.
My bowtie boys, Milton, Winston, and Churchill, parade me in front of their parents for the good girl that I am, take me out for the bad girl I am.
They think I’m a top-notch actress in front of their parents, they have no clue that they don’t know me either.
My bowtie boys hardly wear bowties at all! As a matter of fact, they are only worn when they go to church-hardly-and they’ve not a clue that the whole time I’m paying close attention to the preacher-man, wearing the gingham print bowtie.