I've never known the length Of that twist of brunette She keeps pinned in place With a yellow #2 to circumscribe her Learned crown, but that pillow of pink Makes me think she's a possible revisionist, And I have ideas She inks in the Times Sunday puzzle, And many's the time I've spied on her scratchings, Hoping to catch her eye, or at least, In leaning across, to get one down from her In reference, beneath those frames I find pools of chestnut flecked with light And hope that I might spark her With a witty query but it is always so: de facto, please and thank you Maybe if I'm late, she'll notice But would I risk her discontent? No fine, no fee would restore me To noone from someone who abuses time freely given, When my due was past and stamped I am someone who dreams, I am someone who writes, I am someone who reads, As I was before I became so avid a devotee Of this borrowing, or more truly of She who sits and receives my returns Graciously, without knowing that Each and every volume is one I would dedicate to her, Who'd read my roughs And helped me sort it out. One day yet she may let me Pull out that pencil, And start with our story