The Means To An End Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

I donned an oddly-patterned bowling shirt,
a pair of well-worn jeans with Rainbow sandals;
she wore a sweater with a pleated skirt
and Gucci bag (with leather-woven handles) .

We matched as well as Scott Fitzgerald’s Eggs,
the East and West, old money/nouveau riche,
but she had breasts, Athena’s sculpted legs,
and, smitten by those parts, I downed her quiche.

It tasted like a rubber egg would taste,
stubborn and ruthless on the untrained fork,
yet not one hunk of blubber went to waste,
and when mimosa called, I popped the cork

and we consumed the nectar of our youth,
a mismatched pair consumed by all but truth.