APPLYING THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD

* Best of the Issue - April 2009 winner! *

Describe Experiment

I went to a country-western joint to meet girls and dance.
Most of the girls were women, with men.
They danced with me anyway.
Until the joint closed.

Parameters of Experimentation

I figured, go for broke - hold nothing back.
Each dance turned out to be a two-step.
Once I tried jitterbugging, to no avail.
Two-stepping is for cowboy boots, not sneakers.

List Results

A scientist seemed welcome in this environment.
I danced with a new girl each number.
The guys looked relieved, consumed lots of beer.
2:00 A.M. closing came mighty early.

Conclusions

Country-western joints are accessible for socialization.
Though strenuous, dancing is aerobic exercise.
I would consider repeating the trial experiment.
After recovery from the skull fracture.



MAKE ME A MATCH

About the time I saw "Fiddler On the Roof"
the first time was the first time
I was asked to try to find a mate
by a friend who needed one, didn't have
a clue how to find one himself.
I figured, like Yentl, all you had to do
was prospect for another single out there
most like the guy who was in need.
Well, lo and behold, I found her -
a female mathematician, master's degree,
matching his master's in electrical engineering.
It was hate at first sight - they were so much
alike they disliked one another instantly.
Wouldn't speak after the first few feeble
overtures, no matter how much wine
I poured, flank steak I placed on their plates.
This sort of mismatch of like-minded souls
happened several times again before it occurred
to me that matchmaking wasn't my thing.
The moral being: when someone asks you
to give a hand at finding a mate,
tell him or her your bad luck with previous
attempts, introducing two people who
seemed carbon copies of each other.
Just go out and do your thing, you might say -
don't even pretend you're looking, just
go have a good time. If you're having
a good enough time, maybe someone
will notice and want to join you, another single.
But then again, probably not.



OUR WOMEN

We think we're pretty damn cool -
sneaking a peek at porno,
snatching the last drag on a smoke,
calling for a what-the-hell last beer,

winking for double bacon on the BLT,
overlooking telltale bulges in the mirror,
speeding through a latent yellow,
telling the little lie that gels with others,

augmenting the fight that never happened,
pretending to be big-assed tippers,
making fun of people who're slightly off,
showing impatience without analysis,

thinking the worst as a rule of thumb,
making kids do as we say, not as we do -
until our women put a foot down and
scare the living crap out of us.


Bill Roberts is trying to solve the mystery of how it is his Oklahoma grandparents produces 22 offspring while he and his wife of fifty years to date have yielded none, so they adopt untrainable dogs. Bill's poetry is widespread in small-press and online magazines. He lives much too close to the edge in Broomfield, Colorado where he can be contacted at marcorosie@comcast.net.