Thusfar in college, rather than venturing out to partake of the legendary insanity taking place in Worcester, Desauntels and Alumni halls each weekend, I have grown fond of sitting up with whoever's being paid to watch the doors of quiet Hanrahan, and discussing politics, religion, and philosophy~ and of course poetry and romance.

Last evening, the senior girl guarding the way brought over a rather amusing friend, who reminds me of the one girlfriend I once had. And heck, she's the thinnest damsel I've ever seen; after she made several comments on her lack of weight, socially unadjusted old me asked how there was even room for her vital organs in her frame. Sadly, she did not appreciate her physical extremity, and so after a rousing and overemotional debate on our concepts of truth, I wrote her something to cheer her up,

Sonnet LX~ The Faerie Ginger

If you own some cup of imperfection
Then her sanguine hand, hidden from the start
By the Creator's art cannot impart
Her silhouette, her brazen affection
On your stiletto figure. As life's end
Lithe as an ascendant laurel tree
Or a resplendant Cokebottle of glee,
When near the sea you twist yourself, to bend
The waist and arms upwards toward Providence
The clouds will loose immortal shafts of light,
Giving you flight, espousing your bright,
Sunset-shaded hair, stunning the same sense
Which declares you super thin, not a sin
Unless a doughnut contest you must win.

I like it, but its sort of comical in itself how one sentence runs on through lines 4-14. The Wayward Ginger, as she calls herself, liked the poem. Hopefully she is not too wayward; her plans include one day creating a foundation for assisting wayward gingers (redheads). Reminds me of my half-serious scheme of using some of the money I'll eventually make to create a scholarship for chatty girls. Call me the flippant utopian.