Loving Norman

is impossible.
He knows.
He’s tried
for years,
hand stroking
his manly ego,
squeezing his bloated
throat.

Oh, he looks good
enough on the surface,
hair combed
across the thinning
spots on top,
teeth white
but somewhat bent,
cheap slacks pressed,
shirt immaculately clean
though a little damp.
Myrtle Beach Lothario
slightly out of season,
voice too loud,
sugar too high,
patience all but gone.

In his younger days
he tried hard
to earn the love
of at least one
warm body
beside him,
held his temper
in check,
spoke
only in whispers,
only sweet
words, tried
to be sensitive,
vulnerable, think
of others first.


He thought
if he could love
another, they might
love him in return,
but if his own father
couldn’t do it,
if he, himself,
can’t do it,
what hope
could anyone else have?

by Scott Owens