is old and I am thirty-six with or without you
and action speaks. Your back to me is cold.
"I love you," I say. "I don't believe you
for a minute!" You say it like you mean it. At forty-two
you'll buy no noisy bill of goods. You've been sold
old roses, red violets, you're black and blue
with compliments! Darling I don't know what to do
to stop my mouth. I feel, therefore I am bold:
_I love you._ But you say, "I don't believe you
mean that." O.K. All right. The air turns blue
at twilight, I close my empty mouth and go -
I'm old. Roses aren't red, violets aren't blue
anymore and singing hurts, breath hurts. Two
days later you reconsider, come in from the cold,
older. "Roses are red again, and violets blue
and I love you!" You don't say. Well I don't believe you.
-- Marilyn Krysl, from _More Palomino, Please, More Fuschia_, Cleveland State University Press, reprinted by permission