What happened, Joseph?

Now turning fifty, she reflects on her life,
wondering if she might have been his wife.

Perhaps if she had done something differently,
her archetypal man would have remained in her arms sweetly,

and been hers and only hers--I should have complimented him more.
Oh, Joseph, was I not (in bed) a pleasing whore?

Where could I have gone wrong?
Suddenly you stopped singing me your song.

That Saturday, indelibly imprinted on my memory,
you were supposed to come over for dinner, bringing, of course, all your wit and badboy reverie.

I  went out shopping for your favorite foods, salmon and pate'.
Made your stuffed mushrooms, bought your wine, merlot, but no you, Joseph, what was the delay?

No call from you, not even an email.
I sat in my kitchen with all that food ready, cried and cried, and asked myself what I did to fail.