Tonight's Poet Corner: Second Guesser

Second Guesser
by Belinda Roddie

Who do you love in the end,
my friend? Do you love the girl
with flaming curls selling red roses
on the crooked teeth corner? Or perhaps
you swoon as you attempt to woo
the dame who could fit in the frame
of a Rubenesque painting?

You might find yourself
guzzling wine past midnight
and seeing double of the lady
in a black cocktail dress. You broke
a pint glass at a pub, and she cleaned
your wounds with scraps and a ladybug
patterned bandaid: So cute. So charming.
So thoughtful. So quaint. So everything.

Now you have names upon names upon
names upon names written on your skin,
but no phone numbers - the nomenclature,
not the code. The identification, not
the contact or communication. You may
as well admire them from afar, like at
a museum: Look, but don't touch.

Don't ever touch. Don't lay a finger. I
swear, you let your fucking pinky rest
on the sculpture, I guarantee someone
will swoop around and break it off
your wimpy fucking hand.

Who do you love in the end,
my friend? The target, or the pursuit?
The smile, or the colors? Or, perhaps,
the mere idea of romance you've missed,
despite your wife holding you to her
bosom, reminding you that love
isn't
always
a goddamn romcom?