I Always Will...Rodger

Such an interesting color, Rodger - Green - like our mysterious calico eyes? Yes? You? An idiot savant submits into me - a blooming garden of emerald delights? Like our first encounter - regulated and raw (green). Drawing our hunter-hued curtains closed and tittering in kelly green giggles; until formidable patriarchs silenced our chartreused lips into a tongue-tied, sign-languaged stupor. See them, Rodger? The lovers, the leprechauns and the liars. See us? Inexperienced (green) Grasping irregular four-leafed clovers possessing obsolete magic. Jaded were the lucky shamrocks we clutched. Me? Well - tickle and curiously cuddle - the liar. Crow and envy (green) the algae-covered bastard! One who endeavors to smell like scented mint tea bags; enviable for the general public - hardly odiferous enough to stain viridian dejected eyes into a sculpted misunderstanding. Our edacitious folding exhaled like the script I wrote. Like dumbed-money (green) or infantile idiotisms? Like relationships that snap - like crisp Romaine lettuce or fresh Tuscan peppers; fractured within the claws of the dumb-founded? Servile flattery - a riff you oft times sang yourself to relinquish the untrained phobic serfs into hiding? Like us? Convulsing and caressing, with meteors in our pockets, you then tenderly (green) shattered inside me. You died last year, Rodger. In January 2008, does a St. Patrick's Day aura count as a color? Swimming naked in the pea-souped Chicago River. Your willowed eyes. My pining heart? Funny, as a poet - much as a pundit may try to patiently maintain supple security - can a budding man spill enough tears for the someone he thought was a saged (green) veteran? One who would stay? Why is that? Why did I think that, Rodger? Callowed and unripe, (green) surely, was I. Rodger, (green) apple of my eye don't fret - unseasoned and recent - I loved you. Stunned, stammering and sprouting (green) I wrote this poem for you. I never pen peacock pretentious. But - you'll never see this ode...will you, Rodger? Rich in my lost memories of you. So immature - when Pandora's pliable (green) tongue swallowed my common stupidity into an unpolished, burgeoned travesty. I now weep amongst the shamrocks. Rodger? You were such the innocent novice then. (green). Look who's the infantile idiot now.