I was feeling comfortable at last
after a long and emotional day
with my arm still sore from the jab
and my heart aching for my lad.
But now was time for my wife and I
to sit together and enjoy a cocktail
or two while sharing thoughts
and laughter and insights.
When suddenly, I fell too heavily
on the sofa and upset the plate
of jalapeno poppers and a sweet
dipping sauce of onions and pepper.
Shyly I cringed at my mishap
only grateful that the sauce was intact
and the snack still quite edible
as I quickly settled my arse back down.
And then she snickered and said,
“Party foul,” and me being
a generation ahead of her and
painfully out of touch, I grimaced.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know
what party foul means,” she said,
as images of a much besotted Duck
jauntily danced a reel in my head.
“Of course I … do,” I insisted
sheepishly, and she kindly explained,
but still, I like the image of minced Duck,
the reekin’, howlin’ fowl, far better
even if poor Sarah might look askance.