A Pretty Lady With A Mysterious Trunk Poem by Hm. Nes

Where do you come from, pretty lady?
And can it be true that you desire a favor of me?
Your request seems simple enough,
Innocent enough, and doable.
You want me to take your key and unlock the huge trunk
Strapped atop your saddle pony?
I can't remember the last time I saw a lady such as you,
As pretty as you,
Or as kind
And traveling with a saddle pony.
Actually, in truth, this is the first time.
And the trunk, a heavy one, or so it appears,
Bends your pony to the brink of collapse.
And you, such a lovely lady,
So lovely and so kind.
Yes, yes, of course, the key.
And yes, I'll open the trunk for you.
After all, a lady as delicate as yourself,
So gentle and so kind, should not be expected
To open such a heavy trunk.
My, just look at this trunk, so old and weathered.
Is it magical? I ask,
Turning to look at you, hoping for a response and remembering
That your beauty is quite satisfying;
I want more of it, your beauty that is.
Especially, since it will likely be lost to me as soon as
The task is completed and
The trunk has been opened.
I hesitate. What is in the trunk? I ask.
Is it safe?
Again, I wonder why you don't open it yourself.
Neither the lock nor the key is rusted. They are
Easy enough to get at, and I am certain the lock will
Open with little effort.
'Excuse me, ma'am, ' I say. (And I'm surprised
By the timidity in my voice. You are not, after all,
My superior, or in any way imposing; but I feel myself weak
In your presence and inclined to submit. I also feel
A caution welling up from my soul.)
'I don't know…' I hear myself say.
'What do you not know? ' you ask.
'I don't know if I should do it.'
'Do what? ' you ask, your response sounding obtuse.
'Why don't you open it yourself, ' I suggest. And I
Offer the key back to you.
You take it
Without delay, and
Jerking the lead rope, you turn the pony sharply,
Pulling him toward you;
And then, you walk away,
Abruptly, the pony almost at a trot.
Curiosity consumes me. I want to run after you.
I want to know what is in the trunk,
But I stop myself from calling after you or running
To stop you.
I let you go,
And I determine that the next time a pretty lady calls
At my gate, leading a saddle pony, laden with
A mysterious trunk, I won't even bother to answer.
I don't have time for such things.