Captive Secret Poem by Patti Masterman

Even a dead man could love you
if you played your cards right,
she told me once.

Although never would he speak of it,
staring at the moon all night
(like something sullied, unwelcome in the light)

You could not go dancing,
hold hands at the midnight movie,
have late dinners afterwards,
where the city still held light.
Would you doubt his fidelity?
You could ration your love like war stamps;
he would still be there waiting,
and even if you outgrew him,
it wouldn't really matter
while his skin slowly darkened,
like an old leather saddle.

His relatives wouldn't call you,
to blame you for his sadness.
And he would hold your secrets closer
yet, than his own stilled heart.