Old wives, I wish I could
be one of you. Instead
I am the born old maid.
Old maid emeritus,
let’s say—the squid
whose erudition hugs
too many clams at once—
heart full of ink. With my
verdichter’s digits, I could practice
having crushes. But appetites for permanence
went whirring on. So did the ring
of close calls (all collect). Even the elders
wrecked their roadsters, just to have one
date with the tow truck. Drivers loved
their doctors into deep intensive care—ah, why
go there—old wives! I did remain intact,
was checked, rechecked, racked up, A-plus—
that’s better than perfect, right? That much,
let’s say, is understood. (I’m speaking
Old Grammarian, you’ll recognize,
where something understood
is something missing.)