Not Unhappy

We’re never satisfied, but that’s all right:
We’re not unhappy with the way things are,
Although we might covet a bigger car,
A livelier garden, or a warmer night,
Someone to hold us in their arms, delight
And sweet contentment under a bright star.
There is this limp, and an unsightly scar
We would be rid of, and this overbite;
There have been days when friends began to scoff
And mock the way we grimace when we sing,
But often, in our aimless wandering,
A gentle breeze, one breath, a little cough
Turn into winds that blow the roof right off.
A chance encounter changes everything.

When You Came to Me

The moon was hidden, but the stars were gaudy
When you came to me, the offer plain
And irresistible. It seemed insane,
This beauty in my arms. “Lawdy Miss Clawdy”
Played on the radio. You seized my body,
But I should have known the sad refrain
Of all those endless sad songs oozing pain
Proved this was not delicious. It was shoddy.

I held you tightly, and I kissed your hand.
You smiled, but suddenly your dark eyes cleared;
I said I loved you, which was what you feared
When you said you loved me. It wasn’t planned:
Maybe you hoped it was a one-night stand.
You used me — eight times — then you disappeared.

Your Choice

If no one answers when you telephone,
Then maybe you should think about those pills.
If people laugh when you describe your ills,
Perhaps it’s time you left your friends alone.
If there was no sword leaping from the stone,
And no birds singing on your windowsills,
If your voice leaves folks green around the gills,
The day has come when you should be wind-blown.

Move on. Act quickly and decisively
To ease and disencumber everyone.
Let them relax; it’s hard for us to shun
Without this feeling of despondency.
We want to leave, but all of us agree
That only you should choose, and then be done.

The Little Insult

Son of a bitch, she called me. I object,
The little insult shaming both of us.
She thought that I’d collapse — “What a mean cuss!”
She thought I’d mumble — but me, I dissect,
Examine, ponder, use my intellect,
Compare meanings. I mean to make a fuss,
But only as a man. It’s not a plus
To be called puppy dog. That’s not correct.

I say I’m just as awful as the mother,
The woman, über-bitch, heartless grande dame
Of grand guignol — just smile, say “Thank you ma’am”
And meekly turn first one cheek then the other.
I tell myself: Don’t be her tragic brother,
Be the original, bitch that I am.