If you two were to ask me what I seek in life and love
(arriving at my place one day, with flushed young cheeks,
yourselves somehow in tasteful scattered disarray)
I would not hesitate to tell you there is nothing that I want:
I am replete in all my hermitry — the whole world at my feet
(the ultimate in idiot savant [and also self-deceit]).
Then as you leave, the two of you, pressed close together,
arm-in-arm, blended into oneness through the sleeve,
like conjoined twins (not merely in your flesh and bone) —
I’d run to you and take you by the shoulders one-by-one
and, choking back a scream, I’d wish you well with every cell
and you would see into my soul and know my secret hell.
© Alan Morrison, 2013