The Stages of Bemused Despair

During the stages of bemused despair
I had to admit I was never impressed by you –
Although I waited for you at the train station.
I was never impressed by you, I checked.
Maybe it was the cut of your hair,
Which was by all notions a most fine shape,
But whether I was attached to you or otherwise,
I couldn’t get behind it (although I knew it meant
So much to you). You took it with you to the Pole,
And I hoped you’d leave it there.
There were other things. Your tipping, for one.
I grew up in Boston, and we were strong tippers.
Even today, I cannot resist it, even when it’s something
Quite delicate, like a dip pen of mother of pearl,
And it’s balancing on the edge of a maple desk,
I must tip it over. It’s in my blood, you see.
I’m the offspring of tippers, and I was forbidden
To dance with the others, who I spied waiting
For you at the train station too, you know?
It was during the later stages of bemused despair,
The one where you go around licking things.
I licked one and he tipped onto the tracks,
And, well, his better half was very upset.