The Last Red Rose

The stress is killing me: will she propose?
Will I have nerve enough to see the ring
And not cry out? Does she still feel the sting
Of yesterday’s rejection? Will she close
The book on us? Will this be one of those —
How should I phrase it? — shifts from simmering
To boiling, calm to fever? Should I cling,
Sad, glad, and hopeful, to the last red rose?

I love her, truly, and as gloriously
As ever man loved woman, sweet but tough —
But love alone? When was that good enough?
She seems to think that, because she loves me,
We’ll manage, but my poor nerves won’t agree.
I can’t stand waiting. I’m a powder puff.