Rarely like an arrow does she fly,
never stops to consider why.
Instead meandering like a river,
all the good of the world to deliver.

Dragged forth by force unseen,
evanescent like winter’s sheen.
Dangled ahead in every commercial,
promised to all by women virtual.

She touches down in a private jet,
is frittered away by the moneyed set.
In the gentle curve of a baby’s smile,
lies her shape eternal, the golden mile.

At mile’s end we search and cannot find her,
along the path you’ll discover the answer.
We’re at liberty to engage, we all protest,
in the empty pursuit of happiness.