Blind Date

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.