Pluck

She is married, of course.
I can never find anyone
who isn't attached

however tenuous a ligament
might string from her thigh
to my point of action.

Even her vows are not
death to our love.
We all make mistakes

and often backtrack
from ill-considered opinions.
So. I shall have her,

if, of course, she'll consent
to have me, penurious swain,
whose hopes are cast

onto an Eastern talent
for flicking tongue just some way
here and there, about

the body, as if I could read
desire like lines
in an elegantly written poem.

Don't worry about me. This
one will be mine. Or,
if somehow not, I'll find another.

I can always find another.