Loving The Geek (Poetry)

Granted, he’s no sex god — no
hunky, bronzed screen idol
the guy in the scruffy corduroy jacket
with both elbows leather-patched.

He squints rather shortsightedly
and tends to frown too readily
it’s almost sure his argyle socks
are classically mismatched.

He may appear to be a cliché
but he’s a genuinely clever one
and that highbrow chat he trots out
is really quite a turn-on.

I find the flexing of his intellect is cool
as I cling to every word and, nodding, say
“Mmm ... Uh-huh” at careful intervals
although it’s often hard to follow
I’m keen not to sound an uneducated fool.

I hear other women moaning frequently
their men hardly ever talk to them.
Well, mine talks all the time. Imagine that.
He has theories on practically everything
and our conversations might be thought of
as essentially one-sided but
he never fails to stimulate my mind.

Needless to say, his IQ’s through the roof
and, chances are, smarts rub off a bit
for he once joked I’m the living proof
blondes are not so very dumb
but this thing called love
is positively blind.