For if I were a better man,
I would not write this poem
I would not call up these
dormant words from their sleep.

And if I were a stronger man,
I would build you a strong house
out of big logs cut with my calloused hands.
Instead, all I have is a few weak words.

If I were anything other than this,
I would paint you with a metaphor
of a red moons against blackened sky.
Yet I write no metaphors.

And if a starving man refusing
to eat the food in front of him,
he is called mad, so call me mad
for never writing you your poem.

For if I were a better man, I would
have written that poem which reads:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And that would have been my Mona Lisa.