Not sure if I’m making the cut off or not, but this last writing prompt from ISmithWord’s is : limerick.
There was a deep, wheezing voice floating over the crowd as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the door. Poet’s Den was the oddest bar I think I’d ever dragged my man into. The incense, coffees, and teas mixed in the air, giving each table it’s own aromatic aurora. I felt like I”d crawled out of my skin and into my soul with so many kindred spirits about, my poor date just looked like he was suffocating on all thick vernaculars in the air.
He took up residence in my normal haunt, a corner in the back of the room, pretty much out of sight. I was the social butterfly here, an inversion of our roles beyond these walls. It had been so long since I’d spoken with other writers. We read each other’s pieces, listened to the poets on stage, the musicians wove melodies, discussed what we really meant by what we said. It was thrilling… in a calm, sipping warm spices kind of way.
Then a sort of raucous rose up from the back. There he was, obviously enjoying something a bit bolder than my tea in his glass and being the loud, fun loving sailor I’d fallen in love with.
Excusing myself I walked over to him and whispered an appropriate encouragement to get us out the door without too much disruption. While we were walking out a heard a few sneers and distasteful remarks, a classic case of” who do you think you are to be in our clique” kind of nonsense that drove me mad.
I paid the cashier and said, a little loudly and maybe with a wink, “You’ll have to excuse us for the night. My limerick needs its muse.”.
It was cheesy and silly, but what can I say, my sailor’s rubbed off on me.
Word Count: 306