Sitting on the banks of the Yarra
I think, Melbourne message me,
a whisper of courage, hope
and salvation, to ignite the embers
leading to my unknown future.
I seldom place finance and professionalism
before a lady, though, much like
the International Flower Festival,
those traveling towards my heart
are not indefinite visitors, disappearing
sheepishly into the night, as though
our love was a one night stand.
I tire of meeting women in Swanston
and Lonsdale, who excuse themselves
during our date, to pluck the heartstrings
of other gentleman they consider
worthier than I, using age, the one
behemoth I cannot deny, nor take credit for,
as the instrument in determining my value.
Attending academies, hailed as stages
for magnificent learning, has taught me little
about romanticism, or the human
condition, as I stare into the memories
I painfully possess, a nostalgia bleeding
through the retinas of time, until longing
for a return to past relationships
becomes the wish which infuriates my tongue.
The photos of potential paramours
in the offices of match-makers look
away from me, as I serenade each of them
with the touch of my eye. But what could a son
of the North-Western suburbs give to a girl
from Melbourne’s East, who demands
her lover come equipped with a supportive
wallet, to accommodate her unquenchable desires.
Why can I not find a lady, who hasn’t been kissed
in so many years, that it is positively criminal,
for her beauty, inside and out, is inescapable
to behold, as we walk hand in hand,
beneath the flirtatious moon, who courts
the brightest of stars, while I fondle the lips
of the woman, I call my own for a time,
and taste the richness of her kiss.
Speak to me, dear Melbourne, and let it be known
what I need do, to arrive in a place and time
where I may settle down before I’m thirty,
for why must I wait, just because love has been
replaced by a commonplace of economic greed?