To The Woman Who Sang To Jolene

With her flaming locks of auburn hair,
Ivory skin, and eyes of emerald green
She’s a temptress.

You, however, have dull black tresses,
Tangled on most days.
Bronze skinned and onyx eyed,
The one you think of as ‘your’ man,
Was never yours.

You do not have magic or myth,
You are normal, sometimes weird.
What does a man do with pleasant
Or courteous, when there
Is no enigma?

Jolene is a fairytale,
Every chapter a poem.
She is enticing as a breeze, with
Promises to lead to distant lands;
She’s mysterious as a veiled palanquin,
And charming like
The skies at dusk.

You’re klutzy, you drop things.
You announce hunger, fear,
And pain.
You plead with her to salvage your love.
And your dresses are boring
You do not know how to seduce…

Jolene glides in-and-out on
Tiny, pitter-patter feet.
Clothes become fables on her skin.
She doesn’t have to beg, she chooses.
When she brings men down to their knees
With a look, nothing more,
They peel off fables to find
Exquisite passion.

Your man was hers
When she was made.
You were allowed to borrow him,
Think, woman,
Has he ever told you
That you’re pretty,
The way he talks about her in his sleep?

You cannot compete with her,
You shouldn’t even exist.