The more I try, the more I make things worse.
’Twere my priorities that got me stuck.
My love for ’52 became a curse;
a jealous One repaid me with bad luck.
But ’52 so far is innocent,
assuming that she hasn’t seen the red.
She knows of nothing not to circumvent.
She knows that if she stays here she’ll be dead.
But stay she does right where she was before,
though this would be the perfect time to bolt.
Now that I’m seen, they won’t look any more
if, as I think, they’ve seen but this old dolt.
Oh One, please tell her that she has to leave!
There’s nothing she can do to help me out.
I cannot signal her; they would perceive
that there’s another visitor about.
©2010 Louis A. Merrimac
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