Juliet is gone for the week,
So I am left with a poem, mourning—
Two girls collecting their bagels,
With curly hair and a pony tail.
Yet I can’t see them,
For I need glasses.
Love is a dead word,
I’ve said it before,
So all I have to offer is my left ankle.
I’d take the curly one
Or the pony tail too,
Over there, sitting by the café’s fire,
Take no notice of me.
They are more interested
In their bagels.
Should I approach and offer?
“I shall make you secure, girls.
The state gives me $1,962.36 a month,
And I bake cherry pies;
I speak Hindi, too.
We could go down
To the National Gallery of Art on Sundays
And watch weird art films
At 2:30 for free.
I bet you, too, love Andre Derain.”
Quasimodo would have more luck;
Still, I am in love.
Their scarves and bracelets and shee-shee boots
Are almost as alluring
As a young Bridgette Bardot,
In her queen bed in the morning.