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.