My sweetheart lurks on the horizon,
doing what’s necessary to bridge the gap
between what’s here and beyond the sun;
she gives her man, perhaps, a little slap,
and then repents—having chosen the best
man around. Does it bother me to live
alone, when she’s at another’s behest?
But there’s nothing, do tell, to forgive,
since, without this calling, i’d do the same—
making the best of this life with another
lonely traveler, living in the frame.
We’re meant, even still, for each other:
Don’t we connect, through Him, anyhow?
There’s a girl, out there, that fits him better,
choosing the life that he, in me, would endow—
i extinguish, then, my scarlet letter—
A for adultery: we’re one of a kind.
This calling, for me, is no more a curse
than the bond that she, for me, would unbind,
living, as she does, i know, from her purse,
since that is one way we toe the line.
i long, necessarily, for her body—so,
am i jealous of a life that isn’t mine?
but what if i take this with me when i go,
and assume a place, next, at His side?
if i gave this up, i’d regret it, then,
going, at that point, along for the ride,
without becoming a leader of men,
and answering, for all, every question.
Besides, i want a woman that pleases me,
working, a little, at no suggestion,
to excite others with her explicit fee—
recognition, then, as my one true love.
So if i should pine away, pen in hand,
while she uses her body like a glove,
fit to shelter what, for me, would stand,
then i cannot complain. But what if there’s
nothing that comes when this life is done,
and i find this calling leaves me with cares
that, ultimately, strip out the fun
that i might’ve had—with one life to live,
and a partner that would fit the bill,
accepting everything this life has to give,
and, uniting, in the end, with our will?
It would be, i think, a crying shame,
but i am that i am—and i cannot change,
going all in, living, anyhow, for fame,
and a place in the future i rearrange,
exacting my own particular fee—
recognition as the object of her dreams,
even if just a limited few would see,
that i, in fact, am bursting at the seams.