I like all types of men, really.

I remember Gordon,
Tall, handsome,
Eyes of lapis,
Shoulders of a quarterback.
Heads turned with longing at his passage.
But he lacked ambition.

And that would not do.

Bob was exotic and intriguing.
A draft dodger with long, lanky hair,
And a mischievious smile.
Always going with the flow, doobie at the ready.
But he was too much of a bohemian.

And that would not do.

Mark, the wounded soul,
Was bright, clever and charming.
Who could resist saving him?
But he had too many demons
Lurking in his underworld.

And that would not do.

Simon, of the red lion’s mane
And bodily freckles.
Gentle and soothing as rain he was,
With hugs as soft as down pillows.
But he lacked decisiveness.

And that would not do.

Peter was an artist,
impetuous, passionate.
A pianist, his gracile hands
commanded his instrument along
With the chords of my body.
But he fretted over the size of
his other instrument.

And that would not do.

I like all types of men, really.
I have not met the right one yet.

© Copyright Monique Lafrenière