What did I know of true love,
unapprenticed to blush nosegays,
luscious lips, her cinnamon curls?
Too inept to craft soft letters,
crushed beneath her lover's balm.
She'd pick me off rueful, teary,
from the park, weary of the world.
I'd lie there for moments, minutes,
lifetimes; quietly dying,
cradled in the palm of a dream.
What did I know of true love?
Passing prosaic puckered petal,
soothing her mildew passions,
loving to be left out of doors;
playing second fiddle all my life.