To His Coy Mistress

(Sue me, dead white poet, I like the title)

The only real version of romance
that I've gotten to enjoy
are the women I've had
the pleasure to dance with,

oh, not real dancing,
but the metaphorical kind,
where the only movement
is a game of mental chess,
which I suppose I must
thank them for, because
I do enjoy that sort of thing,
and this is the only real way
I get to do that.

Such interested parties
seem to come rather
plentifully, because,
rather secretly, I think
that's the kind of everyday
magic that romantics
are looking for, maybe
not the sweeping off
of feet that people seem
to believe in, but
the kind that can be
practiced to no significant
harm, so long as it's
amusing. Now,

I may be wrong about that,
and maybe that explains
a lot of things, but for now,
I will continue to indulge
this delusion.