I tip my hat to thee

Tell me, spell me.

The words you know but cannot

possibly understand - British tongues

taut against Canadian cheeks.

You who

taps the beds of your fingertips

across parchment like some forlorn

baby grand. You’d expect

some kind of music.

I

Expected a song in words 

but the sound delved too deep

in pattering epithets. Callused, useless

hands. An ink-stained breath

that soaked away your muse.

Drowned

in black and blue.

a vicissitude for the pretentious

Darcy’s and Rochester’s. I preferred

a spiteful Heathcliff. And you, sir,

are no Alec d’Urberville .

 

Let’s be honest, though -

I could never be Elizabeth Bennett.

And I don’t plan on dying old.