Sorrow had always evaluated herself precisely,
Had understood to a nicety what others saw
And didn’t see in her, although she had trouble
Assessing her neighbors, who seemed to crowd her--
Companionship, with her embraces and squabbles,
Joy, who would interrupt at odd hours for no reason,
Jealousy, who always ended up drunk at the wrong door,
Pounding and weeping, disrupting everyone’s sleep.
Poetry, for his part, flirted with all of them, praised
Companionship the most, but insincerely, and
Joy almost as much, with the ardor of the hopelessly
Semi-requited, of the occasional lover, confused.
His real passion, however, was attested by the shelves
Of slender volumes, each eked out laboriously—
Jealousy, his staggering, green-eyed goddess
Who herself only wanted whatever he wasn’t.
Sorrow threw such sweet parties for them all,
Never quite daring to shove aside the rest and claim
Poetry her own, forever and quite rightfully.
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