An Idiot Talks Himself Into It

My ears tell me she's interesting;

She has a lot that's worth hearing to say.

My eyes say she's not fascinating,

But she rates at least an 'okay.'

My years of being less young than I was

Say I trained against this yearning,

That I'm happy enough, but not human enough;

I have no love, only learning.

The part of me that still thinks it's young

Says we make a good pair, so let's go.

Life has taught me that women will hide

Incompatibility. It's a strategy they know.

I don't want life (or a year, or even a month)

For us to mean hiding who she is,

But I'm a niche product, and I'm packaged as such.

She might really be interested,

and if that's the case, and if all this is real,

Then what could be the harm?

Perhaps somehow life would be better for her

If we lived it arm in arm.
I've complained that social justice wins no broad beachhead in my heart.
Is to favor interesting, not pretty, not at least a start?

All that's certain, for me, is my poetic voice

Signifies a blithering idiot

Who knows what not to do, and so uses sound and fury

To talk himself into it.