She’d all but given up. The odds were long,
she knew; she was more likely to be struck
by lightning. Yes, her eyes could use a tuck,
her hair was graying — but her voice was strong,
and unabashedly she sang her song
of middle age: she didn’t dye or pluck
or mourn the doors now long since closed. Her luck
at least had kept her safe from Mr Wrong.
She seldom gave a thought to Mr Right
these days — although she kept on trying doors,
the way a watchman on the late shift does,
more dutiful than curious, and slight-
ly weary. She met cads and oafs and bores,
then opened one more door — and there he was.