[Love e-{turn(all)}] lost

Eternal love

was never my thing: I always was

happier with the thought of

my dancing from one

body to another, like content

means in spring, although the prime

inconvenience is I dance

like a dad.

 

This dad I dance like was

a dad who once wished to be everything

to everybody: a superdad, maybe.

And in his dad-like being, and in

his dad-like seeing, he’d be a lover to his

wife, and a friend to his sons, and a

model for his daughter, and maybe a joke

they’d love to laugh about, but never

entirely at

 

And so this dad-dancing done, this

song he never quite sang, did remain quite

hidden; and when he dragged it out, so

tentative out, on drunkenly foolish

occasion,

they’d scratch their

heads and crack their

knuckles, and knuckle down to a wild distaste:

‘cos superdad he clearly wasn’t,

and superdad he’d

never be.

 

That’s how I feel today: a man

who isn’t; a dad

who did; a lover

who’ll never.

 

A mixture that hurts.

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