The gauntlet was thrown:
a poet sought!
But yet,
invitations of meeting
were deleted with no regret;
they went for naught.

yet again, another time
he casts his bread
upon her swirling waters;
leaves his rhyme
in her head,

and asks:
What is she searching for?
Really?
An intellect to match her own?
With me she’s home.

A writer, witty and bright?
I’m that (if I can avoid being trite).
Six foot oh oh oh
I’m the wrong height for her stilettos.

(Sigh).
Is that the only reason why
I’m not the guy?
(Sigh).