The Man Out of Time

I decide everyday
that I won’t write about you today.

That I won’t drop what I’m doing
to watch you walk past me,

that I won’t stop to listen
when you speak to all but me.

Yes, I decide everyday
that I won’t be so obsessive.

Foolish,
naïve,
excited
at the thought of you.

Because I know
what this leads to.

And I know
I’m better than this.

But why, oh why,
do I seek you out, still?

Hunting the artful debonair
that rests on your swagger.

Hunting the sophistication
that has no bother
what the world thinks.

It is divine
the way you do it.

Make elegance
look like an instinct.

Make dignity
indistinct
from nonchalance.

It makes me mad,
the way you do it.

The way your voice
is so evocative of passion.

Oh, yes…
that honey-whiskey baritone
of sweet, burning seduction.

Crazy, I am confounded
by your smile.
Misguided
by your eyes,
and blinded
by the sight of you.

For you
are now all I see.
My only raging fantasy.

So with all decisions disavowed,
and promises forgotten about,

I watch again,
I listen again,
and write again

of you, o
charming,
enticing
one

who will be the death of me.