The next one won't be any good either.
The next one won't give you satisfaction.
The next one won't stay up to go through his porn collection
and burn you DVDs.
The next one can't be counted on to go from fists to smiles
the moment he sees you.
The next one won't conquer mountains for your sake,
push you out of the way of glaciers, or bird droppings. The next
go AWOL to come on a date, suck in his tummy or sprint
after a rubbish truck at midnight for you. The next one won't
be any good at all, because the next one won't
play along about the fans pressed against your window
when, exasperated, you bellow, "What the fuck are you still doing
the force like being struck by a baseball and felled…or take pains
to collect the shards of whichever broken vase or bowl of yours
and piece together its original shape.
The next one won't—will never in a million years—wait for spring
when he can have a go again at being the next one
of your dreams.
(Translated by Lee Yew Leong)