Patrick Biggs: Soulmates

For each of us, there must exist
   A soul supremely suited,
But if you’d seek that crowning tryst
   The way’s too convoluted.

Though surely someone fits just right,
   This world has seven billion.
Your match could be a Muscovite,
   Czech, Slovak, Swede, Sicilian.

Your kindred spirit’s in Japan,
   Perhaps, or in Chicago,
The swamplands of the South Sudan,
   Or sprawling Santiago.

Had we but world enough and time,
   If vita weren’t so brevis,
On desert jaunt and mountain climb,
   We’d search each nook and crevice.

We’d rake through glade and gorge and glen
   To find The One to marry.
Alas, we’ve threescore years and ten
   So can’t forever tarry.

We bargain with our heart’s desire.
   We settle for come-at-able.
A perfect mate we don’t require—
   Just one halfway compatible.

Now, if you are already wed
   In holy matrimony.
You may consider what I’ve said
   Pure hogwash and baloney.

That ideal match, you’ll have me know.
   Is there to find, like you did.
The numbers say, while maybe so,
   You’re probably deluded.