The Sensitive Guy

I told her she was growing much too fond.
of him. The man was there to date her daughter.
It's not like that, she said. No, it was sweeter:
his soulful conversation style, his mind,

his not-too-macho-ness, his poetry.
He helped her in the kitchen—he could cook
better than she could—and they'd work and talk.
He answered grilling questions honestly,

or so it seemed. Mother and daughter found,
later, he had a more unpleasant side:
He drank too much. He liked his drugs. He lied.
The daughter ran before he dragged her down.

He now confides in his Campari fizz.
The girl's not hurt, thank God. The mother is.

Maryann Corbett

If you've any comment on this poem, Maryann Corbett would be pleased to hear from you.