Sonnet: Not the Man
Surprise me like a sneeze. With greatest ease,
destroy me. Your gaze brings me to my knees.
Your eyes are full of summer and of breeze,
and I am left to beg you: please, please, please.
These words are worse for wear so forgive me.
You are the brook that babbles in the lea,
the poppy growing red and solemnly,
and someday you will be the fruit-borne tree.
I have no doubt that you were meant for me,
but I can never give you what you’ll need.
No matter what I do, it’s true indeed:
I cannot be the man to plant the seed.
Pull out my ribs and tear apart my chest,
For I can never be but second best.