Mondays are always an agonizing chore.
I’m starting to grow quite poor
in a sense. Begging god and womankind for
a second chance; just one more.
I need to start fresh; rebound. I can’t afford
to waste my days outside her door.
Tuesday (we met online), I knocked on her door,
ashamed of what had brought me to this chore.
At first glance I thought “at least I could afford
her for the night.” Her unpleasant and poor
attire consoled my expectations – more
against my usual instincts than for.
Wednesday I was renewed, and spent the day listening for
the phone to ring, or maybe the door-
bell. I couldn’t describe it, but only what I desired more
than her in that moment, is that this anxious chore,
this effort I’d put forth, would not be poor,
but rather a new-found bliss I could afford.
Thursday clearly showed we couldn’t afford
to keep away from each other, for
at last my hope, my fantasy, my poor
lover’s soul burst through the door;
the bane of my heart’s lonely chore
of distant longing ever more.
Friday I thought she yearned for more,
so I sold the things I could afford,
to buy her a diamond worthy of that chore.
But my hopes for her – for us – had faded, for
her mind, I learned, a flimsy door,
had made it clear my choice was poor.
Saturday found me broken and poor.
My resolve had dissolved to nothing more
than her fickle footprints leading out the door.
I fooled myself into thinking I could afford
my waking hours waiting for
her return. Was it good or bad? Not knowing was my chore.
Sunday opened the door: a solemn, self-fulfilling chore.
The poor woman begged, “I changed my mind. Want some more?”
“Sorry, babe; I can’t afford. Anyways, you’re not much worth fighting for.”
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