While we have lunch,
and prompted by cheap wine,
a friend recounts his love-life. He claims
he still remembers every girl he had:
their eyes, their hair, their figures
and their names.
He asks me if monogamy is worth it,
and I say I'm not so sure,
not having lived his way for long.
And so we re-enact an old debate:
is it better to be independent, free -
enjoy a hundred short, intense affairs -
or fall in love with one good, lovely person
and then, through highs and lows,
to slowly strengthen that emotion
down long, warm, patient years?
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Comments about this poem (Promiscuity by Robert Melliard )
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