“I need more space,” my boyfriend used to plead
in 1969, but what he meant
was “I want other girls, and I don’t need
a steady yet.” It wasn’t his intent
to settle down before his oats could sprout,
who’d waited all his life for jaw and beard.
He knew what Dean and Brando were about;
he aimed for outlaw and made do with weird.

But that was forty years ago. We’re old
today and we’ve exchanged our goals. I seek
a little interrupt of solitude,
but every guy I meet wants to enfold
mine into his at least four days a week.
I need more time. I love my latitude.