A Poem for Wendy Cope.


I may not have brought you flowers,

I know that I was always late,

you tolerated my moodiness,

and laughed off my ever-increasing weight.


You said that men were like buses,

and you had grown weary of waiting,

putting up with my madness, my silliness, my inane fusses,

though neither of us barely knew if we were even dating.


Ah! But we weathered the storms, your patience has always been saintly,

and now that we are old, hunched-over and grey,

the silly fights are recalled only faintly,

for I love you so much more now, and you are so much more beautiful,

than you ever were,

on that very first day.