Picking you out was not theft but art.
I smelled the carats, the heft of diamonds so
we waltzed, I heard your woes, played the part
of sympathy, playing too easily your heart.
His money could not sate your lust for romance;
What good is money? My voice was tart--
money can't buy passion, can't buy dance--
we lindy'd, swung, your soaked shirt playing the part
of secret and secret lover, confidant, a start
to divorce motions, splitting his wealth equally.
Making you love was not theft but art.
I never stole anything; don't get smart;
you did, I knew you would, left him
dancing blues as you hustled to depart.
Our marriage quick as polka, pivots apart
yet my face belies not greed, but pity.
Leaving you now is not theft but art,
this poem one last tango before we part.