The Walter Mitty of Love

An autobiographical account of missed opportunities for love.

The Walter Mitty of Love

The memories are wrapped in

Barbed wire,

Too large 

For events so small.

A coward, a fool

And other names they call me.

A farm boy,

Ignorant of the world,

White as white can be;

Twenty one I was

And went to live and work

Amongst the Makkah.

Was that not brave?

Forty one I was,

Took leave of my craft,

Bought a bicycle designed 

To be a moveable home.

For three months alone

I did make it my home 

From the Salish Sea to 

The Atlantic Ocean.

Did that not show courage?

I have spent the darkest hours

Of many a night

Traveling digital trails,

Plunging thousands 

Upon thousands of dollars U.S.,

My life savings,

Into exchanges in London,

In Frankfurt, 

Even far Hong Kong.

A trader both 

By day and night,

I must surely show some

Comfort with risk.

Yet I was ever so timid

With women.

These tiny memories 

So old still bleed

From tiny wounds

Self made

With pain that will not fade.

For I know with shame and anger

Of the times I failed to act,

Would not risk 

Many a chance at love.

There were young Makkah women

Whose dark beauty and

Soft shy words 

Filled me with desire.

For two entire years

I was too timid 

To ask one out.

Turned twenty four,

Abiding poor

In a dark basement abode,

Very, very late one night

I found myself parked 

In a stranger’s driveway.

There had been a movie, 

Easy long lingering talk 

Over a late dinner,

Wine, though she was underage.

Pretty, bright, funny,

A coworker of my landlord,

She had noticed me,

Asked if a date could be arranged.

One a.m. she asked me in.

I so liked her but said no,

Afraid to lose my heart 

To this girl finding womanhood,

Knowing she would go away 

To college in the fall

And forget all about me.

There were women on the streets.

(No! Not hookers)

You know those quick glances

That signal quick interest

Between a man and woman

Passing on a sidewalk.

But who ever stops, turns, says

Hey, please wait a minute?

Ah, but I do remember a bus ride,

One of one hundred,

Each a half hour of tedium

Morning and evening.

That evening I felt a look,

Looked to see a woman 

Three rows down

Who quickly lowered her eyes.

She was a drug for me,

A rush to the brain.

We traded shy looks 

The entire ride.

Surely this is real

I told myself.

Follow and catch her

When she leaves the bus.

Follow, follow, follow.

The time came,

My courage failed.

I never saw her again.

Thirty nine,

A manager in a typical

Sky reaching office building,

One day a subordinate 

Gave me her business card

With a personal message 

Penned on the back:

Please count on me for

Anything you may need.

Danger there!

Perhaps one last memory?

I remember this long ago day

So clearly.

I had chosen to eat lunch

In a small hotel bar.

Seated at the front window,

A pint at hand,

The NY Times open before me,

I could also watch people passing,

Struggling with the winter day,

A Seattle of wind and rain.

The only patron,

Absorbed in my solitude,

I did not notice her entrance.

The weather bid me linger.

When the barman brought 

A second pint, 

He also brought her attention.

She read the cut of my suit,

Asked the nature of my work

That allowed me to drink 

Away the afternoon.

Asked if she may join me.

She was quite attractive,

Finely dressed in very expensive clothing.

I asked what she did for a living.

She replied she need not work,

And that both she and her husband

Were quite free to do as they pleased.

Which they frequently did.

We had a fine chat.

When I reached the end of my pint,

She invited me to spend with her

The remaining hours of the day.

Oh I was very tempted,

But that mention of a husband

Made me imagine all nature of

Complication.

Alas, I passed.

I know they should not,

Yet these memories pain me.

So often Cupid’s arrows

Found me a coward.

I felt the Walter Mitty of love.

There was only one thing to do.

I had to hire a lover.

We needed an additional employee 

In our department.

I hired the friend of a friend,

Then promptly fell in love with her.

One day I secretly slipped

A poem into her coat pocket;

Away I stole her from her husband.

My only excuse is

She was the love of my life;

Thirty years on,

I still love her.

Reviews

[Perry]

Beautifully done! The heart is a funny thing. All to often it say, "I'm already taken by me."

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thank you Perry, I wasn’t sure how this would go over with readers. I am really glad you like it.