In My Other Life

In my other life, I am made of steel,
cold, precise, certain, unplagued
by vague feelings I cannot always define.

In my other life. I am handsome,
with sharp features and eyes
clear as the mind behind them.

No one is surprised at the passion
smoldering beneath the surface.
It is expected, in my other life.

Unlike here, and now,
where even when I flame like the sun itself,
it is considered unseemly, and suspect

and never, ever
to be trusted.

About this poem

I almost called this “lament of the middle aged lover”, but somehow that seemed… unseemly. “In My Other Life” seemed more fun, and I had fun with this. I didn’t want it taken TOO seriously.

The picture was taken at the Washington Fairgrounds last weekend, at an antique show the woman I love and I visited Saturday.

Tom