THREE... TWO... ONE...

Poor man, your life at school’s already full,
And now for months a flood of mail’s arrived:
Another thing to do when time’s too short,
One more responsibility, it seems.

But my life’s mostly void of reason, null:
I go to work, come home, eat, and survive.
The one thing that makes sense is paying court
To him who haunts my waking life and dreams.

So maybe we’re well-matched. Perhaps we’re pulled
And bound to one another since our lives
Are so unlike—we give the gods good sport.
To hell with Greeks, and all their wooden schemes.

Poor man, if you had known what you now know,
Would you have let me in nine months ago?
C