The Shopping Cart Lady
She walks towards me, pushing everything she owns
In a shopping cart with wobbly wheels
Her entire life stuffed into a four wheeled basket
The well dressed ignore her, she doesn't exist
And even though she's not asking for money
I give her all of my change, a dollar or more
Buy yourself something to eat I tell her
I will, she smiles with missing teeth
I see her, sometimes more than once a day
And I wonder what brought her to this
I doubt I'd be able to survive like her
If her misfortune also became mine
Sometimes when I see her I want to ask
What happened that you ended up this way?
I don't and not just because of the fear
That the same thing could happen to me
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Infection Or Infatuation
Last night, from across a crowded room
She infected me with her smile
And this morning, I discovered
It hurt like hell when I peed
In this age of AIDS and SARS
One can't be too careful
Condoms, face masks and more
But how do you protect yourself from a smile?
From across that room, our eyes met
Her smile bridged the distance between us
An intimate moment, between two strangers
An imagined one night stand
Now one night stands have their dangers
Your conquest might be a psycho who won't let go
Not to mention pregnancy or STD'S
Hope I don't have one of those
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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It's Not Easy Being The Love Poet
'The Love Poet' that's what they call me
I admit it's flattering being the one and only
Other poets write love poems I will concede
But none with the emotion of mine, none indeed
But being the love poet has it's price
Everyone expects my work to be happy, be nice
If I ever feel lousy I can't write it down
Because reading it might cause the audience to frown
I'm not always Happy Harry I will admit
Every now and the, I really feel like shit
Depression a remnant of the life I left behind
Has found me again and has it's grip on my mind
But sad or not, I've a reputation to uphold
I write poetry that's warm and not cold
Push depression aside begin a new love poem
2nd draft I write on my way home
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Weekend Fatherhood
Out of all of life's raw deals
Weekend fatherhood is the rawest
48 hours to undo 5 days of propaganda
'I do love you, no matter what your mother says'
Try to do the impossible, squeeze 7 days of love, caring and fatherhood into 2 measly days
Days that fly by faster than the speed of light
No sooner do you pick them up, it's time to take them home
Weekend fathers, you see them everywhere
They're easy to spot by the attention they pay to their children
Their smiles and laughter, tears they so bravely try to hide
After bringing their children back to their mothers
The malls are full of this special breed of man
Buying their children anything and everything
Especially if they say 'Mom won't let us have this' 'Keep it at my house, and don't tell your mom'
From Monday 9AM to Friday 5PM
You're just a man, one of millions, nothing special
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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The Women Of My Past
I remember the women of my past
How to them, I was just a plaything
Relationships that would never last
After they took all I had to bring
I admit it, I had some fun
Especially between the sheets
Nights ended and with the sun
I was alone between those sheets
There were women who wanted to play
With my body but mostly my mind
To them, all I was was an easy lay
Was this the only kind of woman I would ever find?
Flings, and a one night stand or two
Not that I wasn't looking for more
It seemed that was all they wanted to do
The next morning, I was shown the door
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Love With Strings Attached
My first love wasn't flesh and blood
She was wood metal and plastic
With curves that drove men wild
My Gibson SG the best guitar I ever owned
Running my fingers up and down her neck
Applying pressure in all the right places
While stroking her firmly with my other hand
Coaxing from her a scream of sheer pleasure
No tremelo bar vibrato by hand
Playing her was almost as good as sex
And when we were done she didn't ask Do you love me
But I did love her
Holding her I was a rock star
Playing before thousands of screaming fans
Not really just some of the neighborhood girls
A teenager playing guitar in a basement band
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poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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