Woman: I want to do that but don’t ask me.
I love you, poet, but not your poetry.
I love you, but the world loves me, as well.
I love you more than the world but exactly how I’ll never tell.
Man: I have a puzzling face. I’ve been looking at my face
for years in the mirror and I’ve concluded
I was never handsome. I was seriously deluded.
The physical is all. Our faces cast us and put us on stage:
Lover, comedian, vaudeville singer, and, when we age,
we tend to look the same, as if a weak army
full of useless facts recruited us. My face
was made for the CIA, not charm. I have no trace
of character—like Keats’ chameleon poet—
But, no, I will not ask you again.
Woman: I told you I don’t like your poems. (Sighing.)
Why don’t you listen to me?
(Now the two of them are crying.)