For one who must resort to other means
Than spontaneity to find a date,
Much less the distant prospect of a mate,
The game of love is meant for kings and queens.
Like one who always dines on crusts and beans,
Consigned by what can only be called fate
To witness others' happiness, too late
He seeks a partner for his own love scenes.
But caution is a habit that, once learned,
Prevents the urge to gamble on a hunch.
And so, disarming moments of delight
Become a thing to be devoutly spurned.
And those who think alike will meet for lunch,
Content to share their meagre warmth and light.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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