We met at a corner table,
a slowly dying candle between us.
Her voice was careful and clipped,
mine a freight train of questions.
The waiter appeared like a specter,
and we barely noticed the menu.
I mentioned jazz; she winced slightly.
She spoke of cats; I nearly sneezed.
But the next time, a small miracle,
her joke about pigeons at weddings
left me reeling beside my iced tea.
I volleyed back with absurd theories
on why commas should rule the world.
By the third date at the park,
with its silent chorus of oak trees,
our laughter leaped like a bridge.
Ramona, whose dry wit slices softly,
now smiles even at my bad puns.