I once had a paralegal paramour whom I met at a parade.
She lived in a parallelogram palace,
treated parasites like pets,
and a pink-poled parasol kept her pale.
Her parrot Patty was a paragon of paraphrasing, and it lived in a paraffin-coated cage.
She hated paragraphs, grew paranoid over paint fumes, and partook in parasailing—
but only to placate her parents.
Thrice per week we’d seek paradise in a paradox of paradigms,
and pen our names with a panoply of paraphs.
Sure, she’d prattle plenty, and pulled paranormal pranks on paramedics—
perchance by pretending paralyzation—
but it only produced pleads of proffering her padded walls.
Oh, and pertaining to the placing of puny parachutes on pigeons?
Only when punch-drunk on parabolic patterns.
Though promising at first, things petered out,
and the parapets of my pursuit were perceptibly perambulated past.
Now I primely pine
(my passport for penance stamped)
pouring over puzzles of why,
pointless palaver,
pages (ripped piecemeal) of legal pads,
and particles of pensive pandemonium.
But my palm-tree prayers can’t pay the price,
or pack the portentous portmanteaus of plastered regret
back to that parameter-less place
where we two were as paired as pants.
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