Benedict knew
Miss Croft
was out of his league;
she was everything

he wasn’t: upper
middle class,
well spoken,
well dressed;

had a nice face,
nice ***. The mere
thought she’d have
anything to do with him

was a joke. But he
wouldn’t have minded
a poke; his pecker
would have obliged,

he thought. Nonetheless,
he knew reality when
it came, knew he was out
of the game, so became

content just to talk
and joke and laugh
and forgot all about
the poke, least for real,

in dreams a guy can
do whatever wants
or desires: create or
destroy worlds with fires,

make the perfect art,
sleep with whosoever,
become a saint;
dreams allow such things.

But reality holds in check;
but one does what one can,
he thought, and keeps what
reality brings. She was the

out of your league type;
he could have sworn she
had it tattooed on her ***,
highlighted on her passport.

He would have been just
a nice guy to her; have given
her what he could have afforded;
read better books, listened

to highbrow music, spoken
with a plum in his mouth
if it did the job, but he couldn’t
make the grade, didn’t have

the right tone in speaking.
He knew one couldn’t always
get what one wanted
or was ever seeking.