Second Chance

When you meet him, you won’t recognize him. He seems weak:
reflects, where you would have asserted your vaster power.
His wife talks, and he listens. Only when she’s done, he speaks.
And she is eager to hear him. What a strange feat, this man
who has managed to command the ear and willingness of a woman.
But he cries. And thus, you sneer. He is your salvation, but you can’t hear.
Won’t hear or relent. Your arms are bunched with muscle and complaint.
His are lean and smooth; they hold his dear in the dead of night
and hers encircle him in turn. You could kick his ass, and then go home
to the wife who never thanks you fully enough for all you’ve done,
who is never satisfied, never silent, who sags so it reminds you you’re
not young anymore and someday you will die. My dearest former
love, please meet the man you could have been, and could be still:
the man whom you need most. The one man you could kill.

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