Ronald Moran, After Reading a Novel Where the Women Fantasize about a Hunk on TV

Ronald Moran
AFTER READING A NOVEL WHERE THE WOMEN FANTASIZE
ABOUT A HUNK ON TV

So I ask myself, Why is it that women don’t fantasize
about me?

(as if they ever did) but, well, hope springs eternal,
even

though the bedsprings don’t anymore, and I suppose
I need

not look any further than the purpuras, like flags
waving

on my upper arms, or my huge bald spot flanked
by hair

the color of catacombs, or the loss of height leaving
me

without a neck, or, whoa, that’s enough to deter
any

woman of whatever age from giving me a second
look,

if, after a brief glance, she was kind enough to give
a first look.

And so I say, What about me as a person on the inside?
to which,

I suspect the answer might very well be, Well what
about it?

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2 thoughts on “Ronald Moran, After Reading a Novel Where the Women Fantasize about a Hunk on TV

  1. Okay. Let’s see if I can get this comment down without the usual typo. I love this poem. There. I’ve said it.
    I love it.

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