A Proposition for
(on my Forty-Fourth
disappointed maybe, Kevie?
if now I grow more timid, shy away,
and lose my courage in the face of heavy
discouragement? I will atone today,
my birthday, for this loss of nerve and say:
I will be jealous. I will give one pleasure
I feel you need the most from me. You may
freely assume my pain at each adventure
you take with other men. You may yet treasure
the knowledge you are coveted. This lust,
for girl and woman, still remains the measure
of pain for me. I guarantee I must
be, most of all, each year, one year more jealous
of twenty years that fall between and kill us.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Andrew
MacArthur would be pleased to hear from you.