You left your pride in the horrors,
The desolate errors
— Giuseppe Ungaretti
See, evening’s shadow quickly turns to night,
and we are still hungry for love.
We are not fecund, not firm, our infirmities even more
bounteous, but we still fancy riding the wild horse!
Progress wreaks havoc with courtship,
our life stories reduced: “How I spend Friday nights,
My favorite movies, Six things I could never live without;”
I weep, no good can come of this.
Beware, you women, of images of shirtless men baring
bulky bellies, or missing the tops of their heads due
perhaps to a purposeful camera. Shun too the juveniles
sending come-hither messages, secretly wishing to marry
their mothers: No good can come of this.
Lo, here is a man with promise,
plan an hour meeting where others congregate;
I lament, I tire: the odds are slim,
and what purpose, this?
We are keen for company of a kindred spirit,
the full spray of love’s pleasures.
Pray, what does the Oracle say this day?
Go, see the illuminated screen, swipe right.
Joanne Brown is a strategic communications consultant, writer, and poet. Her corporate work can be found at joannebrown.com, and her poetry has been featured in Persimmon Tree and Evening Street Review.