I am a man riveted,
1930s style, as nailed to an iron cross
By Rosie herself.
Who would have thought
A cliché could carry so much fat
As, “love’s labor lost,”
Or “Better to have loved and lost”
Etc.  Pile on the Platitudes.
When the heart leads,
Children will follow,
Dying young, as all fools do,
To think that love prevails.
For many have died in that illusion.
Yet those surviving, wizen gray,
Do not appeal to me,
Neither does their naysaying,
Excite a lingering hope.
Rather, the blush of romance,
The supple supplement
Of dreams
Of things that transmute
From drear to divine:
These things give me life,
Raise me from the grave
Of daily routines, to believe
Love matters, justice prevails, honor lives,
Somewhere, far away from here.