When Jimmy Carter shelled his goobers in the White House manse,
I took to me a helpmeet with a dewy-eyed romance.
I shut out ev’ry rival and bore off my trophy bride
To the Salt Lake Temple where the merry Mormons hide.
We loved each other dearly, so it came as no surprise
When we welcomed many children like a pack of hot French fries.
We bought a home; I mowed the lawn; we shared both meals and books.
And then about the twelfth year in she gave me such wry looks.
A cancer ate away her love; her eyes were veiled and brooding.
I felt that imps had stole my heart, were smashing it and looting.
My love died long after hers had gone – long after the divorce.
I drank away my sorrow – as so many fools do, of course.
But now that I am single and completely sober too,
I look past shattered hopes and dreams and take the longer view.
There are no chains to hold our love; no cell with bars of steel,
That captures love when we’re convinced it isn’t true or real.
Love can die, but can it resurrect if God decrees?
The muse cannot give answer – it remains a mortal tease.