In some distant future closer than I’d like,
your eye will stray, your passion divert
as you flirt then cavort with a guy named Mike
who’ll you’ll meet while riding an exercise bike
at our gym to burn off our anniversary dessert.
In some distant future closer than I’d like,
I’ll forgive you in lieu of a counterstrike,
then undergo a foolishly unforeseen hurt
when you weekend-fling with a guy named Spike,
a pseudonymous sprite from a nature hike
in that part of the woods for gay extroverts.
In some distant future closer than I’d like,
I’ll admit that this poem is nothing but a Psych
101 exercise designed to reveal my own dirt
for there’s no guy named Mike or Spike or Ike.
Yes, the “you” in these stanzas is me; I don’t like
how often I played the role of the faithless invert.
Can I exorcise the fear that I might revert
in some distant future closer than I’d like?