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Poem

He lived always close to the possibility of women.
In his heyday, they would beg him 
to f... money out of them.
Facts are facts, and we cannot sugar coat
what was, in his own naively miscreant way, 
sweet enough to have been his peculiar
style of love poetry.

Never, never, never would he have
coerced financiers or sharks for the milk of his heart.
Only the femina could fuel his desires, 
cash became an enshrined contract 
between the wine-drinker, the vine and the fruit.

In his wayfaring ways he was a mystic 
sworn to worship the fount and its largess
which, as he always claimed, was not the dollar amount,
but the amount moved from account to account, 
a spiritual currency that kept them dancing 
over moonlit agreements cosigned 
by their eager bodies. 

Truth is (a truth beyond the ken
of more reticent men), they prayed together,
prayers that were asomatous transaction 
coequally entered into as a ‘give and take affair.’        

Nothing lasts forever, beware of diminishing returns,
the interruptus of even the loftiest of ideals.
He was always the lover though, and they wrote to him,
and he to them.  Everlasting love letters
dipped in the commercial ink of enterprises
once taken.

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