Remembering Belgium

Years ago
young, dreaming
I wrote poetry for
a handsome man.
I was fascinated.
He was witty, charismatic,
talented, sweet, silly…
I described
his brown eyes
with my best naive prose.
That was years before
my strength fell and,
without sense, I tumbled
into a night long awaited
and finally whispered
the “L” word to him,
whispered, chanted,
shouted the word and his name.
In the morning I said it
once more.
He looked at me and said
“it isn’t like that with us”
and I cried as I left.
So now, when I look back
On the men I’ve “loved” before,
I see him as one of the few I trust.
Oh, he’s a scoundrel, no doubt.
I know it.
But a scoundrel who gave me
what few men ever did.
Honesty.
For that I see him as a friend,
though we rarely speak.
And when he hands me my Guinness
With a heart on top
I think,
“what a sweet little scoundrel”.