I’m a Rhett Butler with whiskey stains on my shirt
dashing after a Jamaican princess
running room-to-room in an opulent mansion.

She intends to marry another man.
I intend to stop her.

Sancho and I chase her perfume,
always one door short of catching up.

I corner her on the third floor
under chandeliers that sparkle
bright as the costume jewelry around her neck.

“How dare you!”
                             Her eyes blaze royally.

I pull out my whiskey bottle to proffer as proof:
Don’t look at my stubbled chin – I’m not him.

She doesn’t believe me, so I tell her the rest:
You’re right, but feel inside me – then, you’ll see.

– Mike Wilson