Tony Cousins: ‘Love’s Imperfections’

Love’s Imperfections

She’d been divorced for a long time, and now
She was aging, charming, and alone.
And she had money—in a comfortable,
Suburban kind of way.
All he needed,
Once he’d spied her, was to choose a face.
Quite simple. The face almost chose itself.
That of a country boy, handy with tools,
Who knew his cattle. Shrewd, but with a heart
Eager to be supportive, and confide:
Cheerful and pleasant; meant for better things.

He affected taste and style. His antiques business
In the hinterlands sold painted wardrobes,
Candlesticks, maudlin figurines.
Time limped on, scattered his bric-a-brac
And left his unmourned shop a vacant space.
So he packed a trailer, heading north
For refuge in the green and placid burbs,
Where he was welcomed by his one true love.

There he paid for nothing, and did nothing.
Except odd jobs, elsewhere, for cash—of course.
When she grew ill, and died, tears were easy.
Her sister got the house but couldn’t get
Him out. Soon, he’ll contest
The will. Some of the neighbours love him.
“He’s all alone, with no one to care
For him”, one sobbed. Not quite. Others would say,
“He was so good to her,” adding, “And he’s
So talented”. Indeed. That’s partly true.
A crow who flies in silence, who’s too sly
To voice his lifeless, sour, ironic laugh.

Tony Cousins