I’m full of interior rules
As the author once said
And so I tend to walk through
Minefields a bit more carefully than most

This has made me a pariah among women of
A more adventurous bent, but as age
Has subsumed beauty, they seem
To have developed a hankering
For men who make a habit of being sane.

I waited for a long time for this
Epiphany and curse the fact it came about
So long into my dotage it doesn’t seem to matter
Anymore who treasures logic and certitude.

I smile to recall the Wildman, the one
Who broke the rules and went through
Guardrails he himself had built along
The highway. The one who laughed
At speedometers. The one who mocked
His own profundity by being, for a time,
Flat-out crazy.

There are women I know who ran from
This beast. Who flinched when he raised
The bottle and the temperature and
Let his passions rule his heart until
He forgot that it was beating.

Good news is that he was only gone
On some sabbatical. Bad news is that
His return was marked by a kind of
Sobering self-reflection that made
His sins as boisterous as a library

Still, the ones who loved me will
Tell you they preferred me sane
And so I take that to the bank
And just wish they wanted the quiet then
That they seem to crave so very much
Right now.

07/08/2014

Posted on 07/08/2014
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch