Damned by the first and undressed by the next,
Preferred by neither, settled for by
both,
This may not be true love. But then
who is?
Juliet is dead and hadn’t yet begun
To grasp Home Ec nor rallied over pep:
It’s Die or Dulcinea for the rest;
And blanketed by down at two a.m.,
I don't know which is worse, I who have
watched
The best and brightest looking
somewhere else.
We are what we have overlooked,
neglected,
Misprisions of vanity. At two
They all seem just the same, no
rapprochement,
Walking reproaches, fuzzy and opaque.
I doubt that I am falling back asleep.
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