Love doesn’t always give us what we want.

It flies from what we wish, what we dream,
these radiant visions,
and lifts our hopes for the right, the strong, the good,
so when the painted picture dries,
and perfection stares back at us, in brilliant hues,
we see truth, and promise, and clarity.

Passion swells with anticipation
of the security,
of the transformation,
of the alteration
we may offer-
what we wished and longed for long ago
to give to you,
to give to them,
to give to her and him,
our fire
manifested in this world.

But traffic continues to pass,
cars honk,
strangers laugh,
lights change,
wind whispers through the streets,
and the ideal meets the real,
which is customarily rude,
impetuous,
jaded,
short-sighted,
in a hurry,
preoccupied-
blind.

The gift is fumbled,
ignored,
neglected,
punted,
forgotten behind shinier things-
the gift quiet and courteous
left behind the louder,
larger boxes
full of hunger and darkness and air.

The canvass is soon gashed,
my bright colors smeared and gray,
my image nothing like before.

“It was not what I wanted”,
the mimeographed message states,
stamped on a greasy butcher paper square.

“It was not what I wanted-
and I have little need for that”,
you tell me.

It is what you need, I quietly cry.

Love doesn’t always give us what we want.