Jul 29 2010
The Perfect Man
I think I’d rather have
a statue than a man
I pass one every day
Lord of my neighbour’s lawn
He marks the arbour entrance
by the clematis vine
he’s naked, man-sized, Grecian
a piece of ornate masonry
but to me he seems the promise
of the perfect man
He does not argue back
but stares with gracious eyes
holds his creamy shoulders proud
and even though he’s tight-lipped
it’s not to shut off his soul
I’m sure his mind holds mysteries
of distant Aegean lands
his torso, hard and constant
carved into virile stance
He does not scoff or curse
and through long, sweltering days
suffers the sun, but doesn’t drink
or whine, or get a druggy haze
I swear some days when I walk by
he listens for my step
and wishes he could wink his eye
or kiss away regrets
I always know his whereabouts
he’s patient when I’m late
I’ll bet he’d never lock me out
he never even shouts!
My only fear is that some year
these neighbours of mine will move
for how could I entreat them
not to uproot their statue, too?
© 2001 Maureen Glaude