written in 1979, pre-email, pre-IM, pre-Skype
I feel a grief profound within my bones
To be from thee exil’d across the sea
And separated thus by five time zones–
If thou art gone, thy love’s no good to me.
Alas, our letters, writ in passion strong
Lose fervency in love’s impatient time;
Despite air mail, the wait is far too long.
Love certain never is, thus is its crime.
To call thee on the phone at great expense
Would satisfy a moment brief, no more.
My money spent, I fear no recompense–
‘Tis not in natural love to so keep score.
O, cursèd be these modern times of ours
That torture love by distance, ’til it sours.