Oh yes the man had to wait for me;
Sit through hours of hyperbole;
til I passed from teen to twenty;
And then to twenty-five.
My fingers always fumbling;
long legs always bumbling;
Laughing, fretting, gesturing;
Til we could see eye-to-eye.
How could I not love a man like that;
Who picks up debris that I knock flat;
waiting thru a thousand times, ‘I’ll get to that’;
until I listen instead of speak.
(But let’s be honest here: he’s still waiting for that.)