What I Can’t Do
Despite all the things I can do with words
I can’t make anyone fall in love with me.
Respite from this shortfall seems increasingly absurd;
Am I destined to watch time wither, forever
in my own company?
I can paint anything with letters,
but the the image of me in someone’s arms is an impossible picture.
As the unveiling of my heart becomes an unattended fixture
I paint and I paint and paint
Still: I am but a lonely typesetter.
There are a hundred ways I could describe your beauty
and I would deliver each and every with the pride that resides in my duty.
Beside those primates I would type for all eternity
But in the meantime, won’t someone please write back
to say that they love me?