If I were a wrestler, 
my signature move would be
The Velvet Turnover:
something to sweep us off our feet
without a thud.

Something that lands in a whisper
and doesn’t have to hurt.

My confidence is 8 out of 10 on this one.
It is gentleman on Valentine’s Day card
dropped to one knee begging
to be involved.

It is pride of stuffed lions,
satin bomber jacket
that hangs alone on a post,
taken down like a feather.

It is rom-com,
loathe to admit its loss.

Why do landings have to linger
like a Kentucky hospital
that might sit for centuries
with its pale green whip?

Acknowledge the
less original move:
a Common Sticky Wing
that slaps, lets up and leaves,
hard and sudden as a pit.