I have not yet written
my love poem to Lisa.
Perhaps I never will.

Maybe I'll just keep it
as the deep unspoken
prayer of my heart.

I'll cherish it, rare
and convolute seashell
the size of a baby's ear.

I'll never take it out
of the plastic box kept
beneath the bed.

Besides, Lisa's poem
would really be for me:
to console myself

for the agony of her
inevitable unrequital.
And so it always goes.