He was going to America,
the land of freedom and wealth.
But before he went,
he asked me to be his wife.
After we wed,
he would secure us a home:
something small and quaint
on a quiet street somewhere.
There we’d grow a little family,
a son, regal like him,
a daughter, lovely like me.
It was a proposal I’d accepted many times,
under the cover of dreams,
so I was well-prepared for the look of devotion
steadily streaming out from behind his eyes.
Even his quickened heartbeat,
had occurred to me,
it’s passion relayed in blistering kisses.
But Mama warned against being foolish,
for she’d known men like him.
They cross the sea on a mission
with famous last words:
“Mi soon come back man!”
And from veranda to post office,
paramours plodded expectantly,
awaiting some sign of devotion,
from the dashing stallion.
In the meantime,
years would pass,
without a heartwarming conversation,
without a drippy love letter,
and without even a terse conclusion.
So they cradled memories of him
and his last request for a wedding.
Proceeding to argue with the bumbling inner voice
that tries to attach the dreaded label,
the shameful label of fool.
“He’s probably just busy;
He’ll write soon!”
Squeeze out dat dey love sponge!
Look like him hot for some American hussy,
an him probably somebody else’s Baby-daddy.
You be his fool!”