I hoped to find solace in my letters,
perhaps even love,
a lover, or simply lovely.
I’m too old, too nervous for this endeavor.

Where are the words when it’s my turn
to ask an honest question of the president?
My adversaries stare.
If only I could compose myself!

I need a t to give me time—
a p and I’d have help.
It’s the story of my life,
rearranging assets and coming up shor.

At last I settle on an s that I can add
to something someone else has said,
making, of just one,
an infinite number of mistakes.