In utter devotion
I promised her a flying chair
like Professor X had
back when Chris Claremont wrote him,
before the aughts.
I said I would use my powers
considerable as they are
(but not at Professor X’s level
– oh, certainly not that!),
to seek out for her
this tool of science fiction
that could mildly convenience her current existence.
She agreed
to allow me to quest
for her pleasure.

And so it began
with research
back into those X-Men comics of yesteryear
and a thousand science fiction movies
and then random picture-searches
– too many of which
ended up being porno-styled photos
of bald-headed beauties laying about in wheelchairs –
it was an ordeal.

I tried physics textbooks
and poetry journals
and even gave R. Kelly a shot
but he believed he could fly
not just float some several inches off the ground.
I wondered if I could get away
with possibly providing her a third-hand Rascal
but the devotion referred to in Stanza One
would not allow it.

Finally
I had to slink back to her presence
and, prostrate and pathetic,
begged forgiveness for failing
in my girl-granted quest.

“What?
The flying chair gag?” she asked,
“That was funny.
Who ever heard of such a thing?”

So I was off the hook,
chastened, ashamed,
a state that would only resolve itself
when I swore to someday serve her
a spear of Golden Broccoli.