The Killing Field

I catch his eye across the room,
He catches mine; well that’s just grand.
The music’s blaring all around,
Modern time; old fashioned band.
He walks this way, I wait and see,
I think he wants to dance with me.
I ask his name.  I tell him mine.
He wants to dance, 
I will, this time.

We dance a time, or two, or three.
He says he really fancies me.
He wants to see me, just once more.
He smiles his smile, I know the score.
The music slides to its conclusion,
The outcome is complete confusion.
I wouldn’t mind another date,
But his hands are telling me it’s late.

We meet again a week on Tuesday,
He wines me, dines me, tries his luck.
I tell him I am not that easy,
I can’t be bought with a crisp roast duck.
He sighs with simulated passion,
Implies my charms just make him weak.
I say we’ll meet again on Wednesday,
And make it clear I mean next week.

We’ve now been dating for a lifetime,
Of sulking, moaning, biting pain,
And calculated cold rejection
That numbs my mugged and tired brain.
His eyes are guns with icy bullets,
His words are knives that lacerate.
He thinks he’s trapped by someone needy,
That misconception seals his fate.

I won’t take part in warfare-romance,
Sealed with words of gift-wrapped hate.
Nor accept a man as judge and jury,
A single soul to name my fate.
I may, one day, with some sweet stranger,
Allow my tender side to yield,
But my heart will never be a beacon,
To illuminate the killing field.


Deb Hawken
Pre-2000