A Perfect Woman

This poem, my friend
it is my perfect woman;
you ask, "But why?"

It's short,
succinct, beautiful,
and close to my heart;

it comes
quickly, it comes
as I write it
and as I sing it,
moon after moon
and month after month;

it is prim and proper,
punctual and punctuated,
pregnant
(not with possibility,
but purpose)—
and always a pleasure;

like my truly perfect woman the ending is sweet,
for it is made out of rhymes and of metrical feet;
this ending, a question—its answers aren't myriad,
for this poem—perfection—does not have a

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