Better Man

Don’t ask him to do better next time, you do better next time, better man, Better man, where is my better man? Fully groomed, and well meaning, I’ve passed them on the street, the men who I should have been meeting, perhaps at the library or for coffee on the veranda, but I always was attracted to men in torn shirts, or trousers too short or some other such indication of need or neglect. Maybe we’ll find our level some day, be friends in a certain way at certain times, funerals and holidays, perhaps. Maybe we’ll do better next time, reach a certain level of benevolent respect. Maybe we’ll do exactly as we’ve done, flounder about with a feeling, a fishy feeling, not much more or less, not bad, but not better. I can do better though I can’t ask him to do better.