After adultery
I wrote better poetry.
When I was true,
I couldn’t think of a thing to do.
Whenever I was dumped, I thought,
She has sold what she has bought,
And now that she is free,
All she loves is owed to me.
But this did not help my poetry.
You cannot live life bitterly,
And be good, or write good poetry.
Now I have a different take,
And love only for her sake,
Whether she loves me, or no.
Love is beyond any arrangement,
Love is mine. Love cannot go.
Many times love went,
But that was my fault; now I see
The truth of love’s philosophy.
The one who dumps has no love,
The one who loves, and is dumped, does.
Love is in the individual;
All arrangements are merely practical
And not for love. Love
Enters arrangement by the blessing of individual love,
Which is the only love.
The dumped has love, the one who dumps does not,
For love lives in the individual who loves
And loves alone. I keep loving her,
And therefore I have love.
She dumped, because she lacks love.
But despite the great poetry,
I wish there had been no adultery.
I wish my wife were kissing me
Back in our little flat
And I were kissing her. And that was that.
But things will never be that way.
Our son is broke. And his hair is gray.