Don’t Call Me Honey

He calls me B,
Head tilted at his windmill
as he chases my errant worries.
With a trusty lance at the ready
he dodges under and through
to find me sipping tea
with Mister Creek.

He calls me B,
Whistles up some tea
ever mindful that I am not,
nor will ever be, a Polly type.
Oh! that rascal laugh that knows
I cannot resist his clever prose.
It’s a poet that has my sonnet
stolen like a bonnet.

He calls me B,
while we walk in time
looking at the world together.
His hand clasps mine,
what a fine bracelet made.
What fine craftsmanship
in the forging of a foundation.

He calls me