She picked me out, a gentle soul, to love—
Finding a different man within—
To love rivers, slow, feeding deer and dove,
To love placid phrases and the easy grin—
Not a fighter and a rival, obsessed with her, and sin.
How could such a bashful guy, casual, and thin,
Be a mountain range of monsters within?
Did I own castles, and a fast plane?
No, I was an ordinary lingerer by inlet, weed, and lane.
I was perfect in my feeling under an urban sky,
Kissing her in a municipal park, as the ignorant walked by.
She wanted to control what, and when, she would see
Me, who honored her wishes, obediently.
Alert to her looks, and safe with the usual advice,
She knew I was a poet. She thought poets were nice.
She didn’t like gifts. A poem costs less than a rose.
Bad poets are nice. But I wasn’t one of those.
I was a poet ready for mountain and sea,
Cleaning up the universe, for her and me.
I was a good poet. And those don’t come cheap.
Nice is nice, and I was nice. But my love made her weep.
I made her emotional. I looked at her, within.
I found sardonic pettiness, which couldn’t let me win.
She writhed and groaned under my spell
And convinced herself she was imprisoned in hell.
But she was the demon, and it was her light
Making the cave ghastly, ghastly her own eyesight.
She struggled, love’s captive, to be free.
She made that old accusation: jealousy.
But I wasn’t jealous. I was more than that.
A poet wants no rivals. I knocked them all flat.
I was more than a river, feeding deer and dove.
But she won in the end, for a poet has to love.
