I figured you'd be up and gone by now.
No one would blame you for capitulation,
I know I make a mess of things, and how.
Most women would require a stipulation
regarding end dates on this love affair;
They'd specify a bunch of exit clauses
to let them out should I seem not to care
about their favorite films and cherished causes.
They'd tell me I would have to get in shape,
to trim my beard, forsaking all tattooing,
to act more like a man, and less an ape.
It's clear, my love, you don't know what you're doing.
Yet there you sit, demure and undemanding.
But wherefore is beyond my understanding.
1 comment:
Not that it matters, but I feel driven to note that the speaker of this poem is *not* necessarily the poet himself.
Necessarily. ;)
Post a Comment