She wore the pink bow
which would grace her trousseau
as her new beau would row
down the river, so peaceful,
so lovely and slow.

But when he saw how
she was watching me now
as I gazed from a bough,
I decided I’d better
bow out of that row.

Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed, light poetry but sometimes departs from that. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in The Offbeat, Pure Slush and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.