Love Song for Whoever You May Be

Lifting weights for you, love, though
I've no idea who you are,
I'm rowing the bend-forward row,
chinning, just, the chin-up bar.
You're a stranger, friend or foe,
Live next door, perhaps, next star.

In Pyong-yang or Paumanok,
when our eyes meet finally,
gabbing gobbledygook
my body language will not be
but, like a cover to a book,
draw you forth to open me.

We'll laugh at Sentimentalists,
softest when they act so tough,
who consider who love is
reason good enough for love,
though he may be poor or pissed,
itch with danger or dandruff.

Unlike God or saints, we love
not unconditionally,
but require a strong enough
reason, and that makes us free
to love a woman for her muff,
or a man with HIV.

So while I work on lat dorsi,
you're improving your prospect
by memorizing poetry,
that you may say to one you expect,
mortal, guilty, but to me
big and beautiful your pecs.

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