At twenty years I knew a girl in quite a situation:
between two guys and in a whirl of raging vacillation.
For one she loved but circled wide, abhorring his depression.
The other simply satisfied with joyful self-expression.
She tried to suffer for the first, a helpmeet with a burden,
until her bands of patience burst and forced her to be certain
that where she loved was where she’d be, no matter what her words were,
and though the first had dignity, the second was her lover.
At thirty-five it came again – the lesson she kept learning:
for she said she was happy when the truth was she was yearning
for any place except her house, her loving living trial.
For she had kids and she had spouse and all too much denial.
Commuting home, she’d leave the bus and walk around the corner.
As she approached her own address she’d shuffle like a mourner.
The house contained her family, her darlings she’d have said,
and though her feet dragged dismally, she swallowed all her dread.
At sixty-three the woman lives alone by inclination.
She recollects and she forgives, but her evaluation
concludes that boredom irks her more than loneliness. She’ll mingle
until her date becomes a chore, and then she’s glad she’s single.