by Dee Newman
Write sonnets to men you find appealing,
Tell them their embrace makes you think of spring,
Declare that your heart and mind are reeling,
But please, oh please, do not call it loving!
Swirl around, bare your buttocks to the band,
Take to bed one of your partners of swing,
Call it amazing, fantastic, or grand,
But, for god-sake, do not call it loving!
Unless you know at the end of the dance
That no other moves as well with the rhythm,
That your life has no meaning or substance,
No purpose or passion without him;
Unless you can swear it’s more than a fling,
Do not ever dare to call it loving.