How Dapper the Airs, or The Stand In -- Part I

I'm going to cost you a dime extra, lovelies.
You buy my body but not my sex—
only a portrait of maybe, a paper copy's
proof of mystery, a remembrance of times
not held to fool yourselves in age.  I can
cut a handsome stand-in for the someones
you unknowingly discouraged across this
unevenly cobbled path—ladies, there must have been
someone.  I hope you're needlepointing weak
hopes now, with me beside you, to be dashed
when I exit without that wink to bring these
mementos to full exposure.  Ladies, you'll own
the picture, and in terms of others, that's all
you'll need to excuse your lonesome style—
a mournable person.  Say I died—all
the better.  Unless you keep faith with a sect that
demands remarriage to a brother or brother's
friend twice-removed.  But you
may wail of my orphany.  By all means, kill
my family, ladies.  On the other hand, perhaps
I am the dare… close enough to hold the fur
about your neck, my hand tickling a set
curl—far enough to assure the beau I
have not enraptured you quite yet, this paper
moon our chauffeur.  And you, I'm sure
are safe with this fellow, who's seen me
the eternal fling as I him the undimmed half-light.
Though we must know he is but a slit,
and I a man's length away.  And so you remain, grinning.