An American

An American,
she thought he was,

the hair cut
and the style of clothes

gave her a clue,
at least that

and the drawn out
drawl like he was drawing

the words
from a deep well.

Her father called him a Yank,
didn’t take to him at all,

wouldn’t even speak
when he said, Hello Sir,

all kind of polite,
thoughtful and well bred,

and her mother
was always gazing at him,

taking in his walk,
his talk and remembering

years before,
some similar American

with his big blue eyes
and wide wallet

brushed her off her feet
and broke her heart

and left a bundle
in her womb,

a daughter,
wanting to go

with an American now,
history trying to repeat,

break a heart
after sweeping of her feet.

An American

Terry Collett

Horsham, United Kingdom

  • Artist
    Notes
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